Here’s the obligatory follow-up to the ongoing saga of my body not being a wonderland: I saw the neurologist at the movement disorder clinic this week, which was earlier than expected. She confirmed the diagnosis of cervical dystonia and threw in a curveball that hit me right in the face (on account of the clumsiness) by asserting that I belong to a smaller subset of patients whose dystonia extends to other locations. It’s not just confined to my neck.
To be clear, I’m not shaky on the order of Katharine Hepburn… yet. But who knows what the future holds, because she explained that, for some of us, things “progress.” This isn’t what one expects to hear at the culmination of a long strange trip with origins in their underarm, of all places. Admittedly, I’ve not been a model of great health during my brief tenure on this planet, but my biggest problems have reliably involved bodily systems light years away from the brain.
It’s too early for me to know what I make of any of this, or I’d share those thoughts here. There are additional tests the doctor wants to order just to dot her i’s and cross her t’s; the results are unlikely to be positive. While we await insurance approval of that and the Botox injections she’ll place in my neck, and eventually my shoulder, I hope to finally have time to pick up the pace on my February reviews. There’s a Raquel Welch doozy I’m eager to get to—speaking of Botox—among other treasures that await.
One thing I keep remembering that might amuse some of you is my late, lamented cat. He was a well-behaved guy, unlike his hell-spawn sister, and he liked to sleep in the crook of my arm. That usually worked out fine, but when it went awry, it really went awry. Several times I woke up in the middle of the night when he open-paw slapped the ever-living hell out of my eyelid. He did so with his claws extended, like a feline pimp viciously assaulting one of his girls.
On each of those occasions, my wife quickly determined my eyes were uninjured. While cleaning the bloody scratches and punctures with rubbing alcohol, I wondered why he left her eyelids alone. When the neurologist noted excessive twitching tremor of, among other things, my eyelids and under my eye—which she said worsens when my eyes are closed—I immediately thought of that adorable little bastard and how pleased he would’ve been to enucleate me and playfully bat my eyeball around the house, until he finally lost it under the stove or refrigerator and demanded help retrieving it.
I’ll leave the Welch joke for posterity but wrote this before I read that her death was announced this afternoon. The “doozy” to which I refer is an early ’90s telefilm called “Tainted Blood.” This was also edited to change “twitching” to “tremor,” a distinction my geeky spouse said is important.
Cranky Lesbian is a disgruntled homosexual with too much time on her hands. Click for film reviews or to follow on Instagram.
quinn quinn
I appreciate your sharing of medical life. Not fair doesn’t cover it! So glad you’re happily married. Sure you’re tired of hearing how tough n resilient you are so will just send best wishes and let you know I appreciate all your postings. Thank you. Quinn
Cranky
Thank you, Quinn, that means a lot to me! On the way home from the appointment, there was a part of me that thought “Well, you’d better not piss off the wife now; you’d be a hard sell on the open market!” When I told her that, she joked “Oh, you were already a tough sell.”
Lisa Coston
Hey, finally got an email about this post. Anytime there are more underlying health issues, it just, well, plain sucks. I’m with you. I’d also be a tremendous “tough sell” on the open market. Practice your Hepburn impression now. “And I told Spence…ride me like a Snapper lawn mow-ah”
Cranky
Ha! Yes, we’d both better be on our best behavior at home. Katharine would disapprove, but my Hepburn impression would probably direct that remark to socialite Laura Harding, her longtime gal pal.