Published: April 17, 2008 11:10 am         

Yanked back by the tail

By Jim Austin

Look out, here comes an update on my Parkinsonism. It won’t be unduly gloomy, but I will talk about human frailty. And so, if spring’s final arrival would have you sooner thinking of daffodils, forsythia, and robins bobbing on your lawn—well, you might want to skip over to the sports page.

Centuries ago, monks working on manuscripts often had a steady companion on their desktops, staring back at them from empty eye sockets.

It was a long-empty human skull, often that of a monk from centuries before. This ornamental companion was called a “memento mori,” a reminder of mortality. In case the point was missed, sometimes the skull carried a brief inscription: “As you are now, so once was I; as I am now, so you will be.”

In other words: “Monk, use your brief years well. Ages hence, all that may be left of you is your own yellowed skull on another monk’s desk, with his spare quills tucked casually in your eye socket.”

I don’t want this column turning into a memento mori. But I’ve been talking with you as friends, each week for so many years, that I think you want to know about the changed life evolving in me. That’s presumption, I know; and if I’m wrong, make haste over to the sports pages. There you’ll find the excellent reporting of Eric Ahlqvist, who’s been conversing with you even longer than I have.

It’s two months since I talked to you about coming to terms with Parkinson’s, and much has happened in that time. I’ve learned, for instance, that this notably subjective disease has an erratic pattern in me. Some days it’s in charge, some days I am. That’s why you may see me striding along Cooperstown’s streets as effortlessly as I used to, and on another days see me depending heavily on a cane. My first steps each morning tell me who’s to be in charge that day.

The big event of those two months was the visit down to Johns Hopkins. Anne and I took Blue along on the trip as a cheerful distraction, leaving him with dog-lover friends when we drove into Baltimore and the University Hospital.

Hopkins is huge, sprawling over many city blocks.

The outpatient clinic fills a whole block itself, a charmless six-story concrete monolith. Two cops were directing traffic out front as cars and vans dropped off patients. Lots of oldsters; lots of crutches, walkers, canes. Anne dropped me off there and headed for the equally massive garage across the street. (She was five times up and down the corkscrew ramps, top to bottom, before she found a parking place.) I joined the group funneling towards the entry.

The entry was a revolving door 18 feet wide. In deference to the clients, its panels swept around slowly, closing behind one group as, on the other side, it dismissed another back onto the sidewalk. I shuffled in with six others, half watching for a sign saying, “Charon’s ferry, straight ahead.”

No such sign inside, but a vaulted marble lobby, echoing with voices and cellphone rings. As I stood uncertainly, patients passing me to left and right, a warm voice spoke from behind a counter.

“First time here? Let me help you.” Behind a counter was a middle-aged man in suit and tie. His skin was rich ebony, his smile serene and comforting. “You just tell me where you need to go, and we’ll hand you on, right there.”

Suddenly at ease, I told him I wanted the Neurology Center. “Piece of cake!” he said, laughing. “Four floors up. Just step down this counter to that nice lady. She’ll take some information and head you to the escalators.” I did and then sat down across the lobby to wait for Anne. From my seat I watched the man who first greeted me. He studied each group swept in by the revolving door, watching for anyone who stopped and looked around uncertainly, as I had. I saw him call over several and send them along, reassured. Talk about the right man in the right job!

As the appointment time neared, Anne was still circling around and around, up and down, over in the garage building.

And so I boarded the elevator alone. The car appeared dingy and worn, as did the fourth floor carpeting, reminders that this was a big-city hospital. No way to keep it as clean and gleaming as our Bassett always is.

At the Parkinson’s Clinic, more helpful people. And here came Anne, a little harried from her garage adventure. We sat for perhaps 10 minutes, and then a tall, white-coated man greeted us by name. It was Dr. Zoltan Mari. An internationally known specialist, he’d come out to meet us and lead us to his office. His smile and handshake were warm, but as he walked up to us, his intense eyes were appraising me. The consultancy had already begun.

We spent an hour and a half with Dr. Mari, who retested my reflexes, my balance, my coordination. He questioned both Anne and me closely and listened attentively to our answers. At the end he stated his agreement with everything done for me at Bassett, adding, “The medicine you are taking is what I would have prescribed, had you first come here.”

This kind man walked us all the way back to the waiting room and, shaking hands warmly again, said, “I will send my report to your doctor. He and you must feel free to phone me here, anytime.” We headed down to the lobby, feeling we had a wonderful new ally on our team.

Back at Bassett, we agreed with the neurologist that I’d stay on the present medication as long as the Parkinson’s didn’t overwhelm my ordinary life. And so my present progression, with me some days in charge, PD calling the shots on others. And for a blessed 10 days recently, the symptoms withdrew completely, only to return afterwards.

What’s this feel like? Well, my life — with Anne, with all of you, in this beautiful place — still remains a joy. But sometimes it seems I’m a mouse in the grip of a playful cat. It tosses me around and repeatedly lets me run away, thinking I’ve escaped. But then it shoots out a paw and yanks me back by the tail.

Read about about Jim Atwell’s book, “From Fly Creek — Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country” at www. JimAtwell.com.