Promptly at 9:30am, the Houston neurologist entered with a warm handshake and enthusiastic smile. With exact detail, he repeated every word from the reports of each previous Austin neurologist that I had visited. He examined my hands, my arms, my shoulders, my walk, my posture and asked us many questions. With a sincere interest in my situation, the young man in the pastel colored oxford shirt and cream-colored cotton slacks validated my pain and anxiety,
Sinking into the cushioned chair, I listened carefully to the doctor’s diagnostic analysis. My husband sat frozen in an equally cushioned chair at my right side. With a constant vibration in my left leg and an aching tension in my left arm, we attempted to focus on the technical jargon flowing calmly out of the neurologist’s mouth.
"This cannot be true!" I challenged the diagnosis, but no words came out of my mouth.
His delicate words echoed around the 10x10 examination room. Each syllable bounced from wall to wall, only briefly resting in my ears. The dance to comprehend his medical explanations demanded that my husband and I listen carefully to his diagnostic reasons and treatment suggestions.
"You are a young woman," the doctor observed of me.
I asked for details.
"Take your medication," he reminded.
His words stung my heart.
"Exercise every day," he coached.
His brown eyes encouraged hope.
"Talk with a psychiatrist," he reminded.
His warm hands demanded trust.
"You will have an active life, for 10-20 years, maybe 30," the doctor assured my husband and me.
His smile radiated confidence.
"You have early onset Parkinson’s Disease," the dark-haired young doctor whispered.
With calming words, he reminded us of the progress that medical science was making in the treatment of Parkinson’s Disease. His message disappeared into the anesthetized air of the examination room. He promised that new medicines and surgeries would provide comfort through the years. His brief explanation of the infinite details that would be required of me to maintain a healthy lifestyle suffocated my attempt to remain hopeful.
In silence, I denied his diagnosis.
"Who is this man of knowledge?" I asked.
In silence, I denied his medical experience.
"What authority allowed him to prescribe such treatment?" I demanded.
In silence, I denied his courage to speak the truth.
With unending patience, he answered our familiar questions. His professional experience infused validity into his answers. I heard my husband ask for a referral to an Austin neurologist in order to allow for convenient medical support through the years. The expertly trained doctor provided a name as well as sufficient medical samples and a prescription to sustain my comfort for several weeks. Then, the appointment ended.
"You will still have a good life," said the medical expert from Houston.
We all graciously shook hands. The doctor went to another examination room. My husband and I walked into the waiting room which led to the hallway, the elevator and finally the space in the parking garage where we had parked our black Toyota sedan in the early morning hours. In shock, we finally hugged each other.
"I am sorry. I know this will be hard on you. Please forgive me," I whispered to my forever patient husband.
Shamefully, I don’t remember his responding words. After 31 years of marriage, I knew that my husband would patiently support my struggle to regain a healthy lifestyle. His warm embrace expressed a loving strength that we would both use.
"I love you," his gentle kiss whispered. TO BE CONTINUED