I wait in the small, light blue examination room, nervously tapping my index finger on the chair’s black vinyl armrest. Colorful posters displaying different parts of the brain decorate the walls. My favorite is a caricature of Albert Einstein. The top of his skull is flipped open like the hinged lid of an old teapot. A jumble of letters, words, and formulas are pouring into his brain. The only one I recognize is E=MC2. My hands are sweaty. I keep wiping them on my pants. But the sweat keeps returning.
My neurologist enters the room with a serious look on his face and wastes no time in getting started. He doesn’t look me in the eye but stares downward, studying the charts and scans in front of him, “Well, Ron. Your brain scan shows reduced dopamine activity. Dopamine is a type of chemical messenger that controls body functions like movement, learning, and memory. The scan is the major indicator of Parkinson’s Disease, commonly called PD. It’s a progressive, terminal disease of the central nervous system.”
“W-what does that m-mean? I stammer, trying to get the words out. Now, I’m definitely nervous. My breathing quickens. My skin feels damp and clammy.
He replies matter-of-factly, “Your life will never be the same.”
But I like my life the way it is! “Doctor, What do I do? What medicine do I take?
“None for now. The disease progresses at different rates in different people. Often, the symptoms as well as treatments vary from person to person. Time will tell. For now, we just wait and see. But It’s important to exercise. Keep your body moving. Walk 3-5 miles daily. I’ll have my assistant email you some links to articles about PD. We’ll discuss them at your next appointment.”
“When is that?” I ask, trying to lower my volume and hold back the anger.
“I’ll see you again in three months.”
I leave the doctor’s office and my world becomes a smoky haze. It’s like I’m looking through an old-time, black-and-white negative. I tremble and sway a little while walking down the hallway. And then I feel it. A slow rumble rising in my stomach like distant thunder about to unleash a heavy downpour. I almost make it to the men’s room. A gush of greenish-yellow vomit hits the carpeted floor with a splattering “plop” and the beige carpet fibers darken. I enter the bathroom to clean up.
As I’m leaving the building, I notify the receptionist sitting at the entrance-way information desk. “Excuse me. There’s a mess outside the restrooms near Dr. Thompson’s office,” I say apologetically.
On my drive home, I keep asking myself, “Did I let my body down? Or, did my body let me down?” My brain is on rewind and keeps playing the lyrics to one of my favorite Stones songs.
Time is on my side, yes it is…
It really isn’t.
You’ll come running back to me…running back to me…me…me.
ME? I’m not sure who the hell “me” is anymore.
But I’m going to find out.
Ron Theel is a freelance writer, photographer and mixed media artist living in Syracuse, NY. His work has appeared in The RavensPerch, The Bluebird Word, Midway Journal, Beyond Words, and elsewhere.
