Meh

At the academic clinic where my movement disorder specialist works, each exam begins in the waiting room. The doctors collect you themselves so they can observe your movement, a pragmatic ritual that has an unintentionally humanizing effect on harried physicians who might normally appear inaccessible in their sterile white coats.

One of the reasons I like my neurologist is that I’ve yet to see her in doctor garb, which is also Crankenstein’s preference — she wears her white coats so infrequently she’d probably have to ask where they’re hanging. The two of them have other things in common: both are late thirties, nerdy, quick with a joke, and obviously quite scatterbrained. Accomplished but unassuming, they lug battered old backpacks to work and stash them under their desks.* I can’t say for certain they’ve both owned Priuses, but it’s probably a pretty safe bet.

The MDS offers use of her personal hair ties when it’s time for injections and each voicemail she’s left me about tests or medication opened with “It’s [First Name],” then a delayed clarification of her surname, as if she forgot it herself, rather than “It’s Dr. So-and-So.” Like Crankenstein and Lt. Columbo, she presents a deceptively casual front that I suspect is underpinned by a supreme confidence in her abilities and intellect. That I respect her opinion so much is why I feel ambivalent about today’s appointment and don’t quite know how to discuss it.

As we entered the exam room, the MDS asked how I’ve been doing these last three months. I was wearing short sleeves and lifted my bruised arm in response, telling her “This about sums it up.”

Bruises are a familiar sight in her line of work and her smile disappeared as she said “We need to go up on your medication.” While waiting for my electronic record to open on her computer, she quizzed me about those recent spills and said if I’m falling I’m not safe. We discussed a few minor symptoms that aren’t worth getting into here, one of which — occasional lightheadedness — could be worsened by a dosage increase, and what to do if that happens.

Briefly, before turning her attention to a row of syringes and getting down to business, she laid out a medication tweak and said she’s referring me for physical therapy and either swallow or speech therapy. The goal is to reduce choking, just as the physical therapy goal is to reduce falls. I must have looked a little dazed because she apologetically said “A couple sessions might be enough…”

What smarted the most — more than the ensuing injections — is what happened after she tested the slowness and rigidity in my arms and legs and said “Left side’s not so great, huh?” That’s when I mentioned that I was on the fence about applying for disability despite encouragement from people who reason that it’s all downhill from here and advise getting started now because it can be a multi-year process.

I suppose I wanted her to make a dissenting argument in light of my age, but she quietly said her office would fill out any forms they were sent and provide the necessary documentation. I went home in a fog from which I’ve still not completely emerged. Hopefully I won’t trip again on my way out.

* My former partner used to criticize the backpack I carried to work, claiming such bags were childish. I think of that with fond amusement every time I’m on the hospital campus first thing in the morning, as vast numbers of bleary-eyed doctors arrive to work or straggle home after overnight shifts. Whether lowly interns or department heads nearing retirement, nearly all carry backpacks.

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