A Fuzziness Creeps In

Walking Through Honey Diaries:

14 May 2020

Back home in 2011, I am feeling quite unwell. There is a deep sense that I am not my usual self. My formerly plentiful energy seems to have deserted me, and I find myself flagging more and more as time goes by. I begin to experience a range of symptoms, or at least sensations in my body that are unfamiliar to me. They start in my right leg. Somehow, my leg feels as if it is rubbery, instead of solid bone and flesh. I feel that it is not within my control. Walking is more of an effort, slower than my former pace and with a slight shuffle of the feet. Nor am I as mentally fit as I had been. A fuzziness creeps in.

By this time, I have a growing sense that there is something at play. Ever the entrepreneur in pursuit of my next project, I take to googling my symptoms with a building sense of purpose and urgency. After the difficulties of the preceding years, I wonder if mwy general malaise is trauma induced rather than the effect of some insidious disease. Still, on the basis of my research, I suspect a physical dimension to my symptoms. After much research, I come down on the side of Parkinson’s. I decide to consult a well-respected Sydney neurologist with expertise in the disorder.

It is a landmark moment – the first step on my journey into the netherworld of PD.

It’s 9.15am on a bright autumn day. All looks right with the world, but in my heart of hearts I am expecting the worst. I enter the consulting room of the doctor’s small suite. It does not help that in the waiting room I see patients clearly in the throes of their own difficult journeys with neurological illness. The ghosts of my future? I turn to contemplate the mature tree swaying in the breeze outside the window.

It is the first time I will undergo a full neurological examination. The specialist has a professorial demeanour and is thorough and accommodating of my questions. He has me move my arms up and down, tests the pressure of my ability to push and grip, has me walk a line, follow a pen with my eyes and touch my nose, and he taps my joints to check reflexes. And so on and so on. I can see he is making sure that every base is covered. He also records a detailed medical history. I had brought along with me the results of various tests and scans gathered over the preceding months for him to review.

I wonder if this is it.

The truth is, for some time I had had my suspicions about Parkinson’s. I can’t help but think of Eric, immersed in his metaphorical jar of honey, enfeebled, the simplest movement excruciatingly arduous as his PD took hold.

The news for me, however, is good, and the neurologist’s conclusion clear.

I have examined Brian...in detail and I think that there is some very, very mild slowing on the left side, and he is aware of this as well. However, I do not think it is enough for me to say...that he has Parkinson’s disease. I am looking very hard for something...

Some months later I again visit, and the doctor reaffirms his position:

I can’t find anything today that would make me feel that Brian has Parkinson’s disease. He walks perfectly well; he swings his arms perfectly well. He has a mobile face; he is not particularly stooped. Pushing it as hard as I can, he may have some very mild rigidity... on the left side, but there is no bradykinesia [slowness of movement] and there is no tremor.

Anyone else might breathe a hallelujah at the news. But perhaps due to my natural inclination to test boundaries, I am not convinced. I believe further investigation is needed to understand what is ailing me.
As it happens, I continue to consult this conscientious and dedicated specialist throughout my journey, and he continues to maintain that the diagnosis is not PD. At one point he says to me in frustration, ‘Brian,

repeat after me: “I do not have Parkinson’s”.’
I have no real reason to question his professional judgement. Parkin-

son’s is an enigmatic beast, and I did not and do not show the typical symptoms of tremor and so on. I wonder if the humanity in him made him less inclined to affix me prematurely with a damning label that there is no escaping.

––Brian Sherman AM