New Doc Kicks Butt!

Took J to his new neurologist at UNC today. (I hesitate to describe him lest he Google me and read this. Oh, what the hell, vividness is all, Google at your own risk: he's sawed-off short, fit, green-eyed, challenging, rightly or wrongly set off my gaydar, and arrogant, like every neurologist I've ever met, but arrogant in a good way. Stay tuned.)

We got off on the wrong foot by being half an hour late. I don't have the wheelchair tie-downs for our new van yet (the endless uphill battle of getting things done without much money: the digital camera I borrowed to take pictures of the van's floor tracks for the eBay seller of tie-downs a) shut down for need of a new battery, then b) wouldn't upload into my Mac, and c) its owner has forgotten to e-mail the pictures to me; the occupational therapist who might know where to get good used tie-downs locally didn't call back -- each setback consuming a day), and so we were dependent on the local wheelchair van pickup service to get to the hospital. I made the appointment, I knew the time frame, I considered whether we should wait outdoors, then shrugged and made J a sandwich. The time window came and went. I called, and they told me, "Oh, the van was there, but you didn't come out." They had honked, of course. Genteelly. Now we're in the back, our door is the one deepest into the entryway, still we probably would've heard the honk if we'd been listening for it -- but nobody told me that's how it works. I guess I was supposed to know. I certainly should've asked.

The neurology, sleep, and headache clinics all share one intake desk at UNC Hospitals, and the place was mobbed. The doctor came striding down the hall aggravated because we were late and he had very little time. (As busy as New York, but much more punctual: in New York if you were on time to any doctor's office, you'd be made to wait at least half an hour.) 40 minutes later, he had gotten interested in J -- whose social instincts kicked in, so that he went from sitting there silently to bantering quite appropriately and amusingly with the doc, though he thought it was Sunday and we were in New York. The doctor also had gotten on a competitive, contemptuous, annoyed attitude toward J's indifferent doctors at Columbia Neurological Institute, which made me happy.

The august New York specialists had decided J had "possible" Multiple System Atrophy, concluded that there wasn't a whole lot they could do for him, given him a prescription, and written him off. (This often befalls older patients, I think. The "s/he's going to die soon anyway" syndrome.) They'd say "Come back in six months," and they were so brief and breezy and unwelcoming that I wound up bringing him back in a year. And then he got too weak to go at all (and get up the stairs afterwards). Those doctors gave us nothing but a depressing diagnosis and a prescription -- not even much interest or moral support.

This doctor said Multiple System Atrophy can be something of a "wastebasket" diagnosis, a thing to say in place of "I don't know." And he wants to try stuff. A higher dose of Parkinson's meds, then maybe some Aricept. Just try it, see if it helps. Says it's like playing the lottery: very small chance of hitting, but a chance, and you have nothing to lose. He's getting a CAT scan done tomorrow, already. There's this thing called NPH, normal pressure hydrocephalus, that has similar symptoms, that could be involved. (I'd asked the Columbia doctors about it, and they blew it off.) And that can be treatable. The CAT scan will have something to say about that, possibly leading to further tests.

But that's getting ahead of ourselves. I am not jacking my hopes up -- this doctor compares J's state to "degenerative arthritis of the brain" and says it's most likely from his rough life of getting hit in the head too much, like Ali's "Parkinson's." What was the term he used? Dementia pugilistica? But I like the fact that he's trying. If in fact it turns out that J can get somewhat better, I am going to be very pissed at the doctors at Columbia, who basically wasted two years of our lives.

If.

Comments

[Jennifer Roach]

Well, thank goodness he's trying something! Hope all goes well.

[m.takhallus]

It's one of the good things about Chapel Hill: we are ass-deep in doctors, so they tend to be available and fairly prompt.

Let me know if you want some plastic surgery. (Can't imagine why you would.) The head of the department's a buddy.

[Pastor_Jeff]

Amba -- What good news! A smart doctor who's willing to try and who cares. What a wonderful thing. I wish the best for you and Jacques.

[amba]

M, almost every time I look in the mirror I want some plastic surgery. But not badly enough, I fear.

Thank you for the good thoughts, Pastor Jeff and Jennifer. I don't want to get my hopes up much but it will be good, at least, to be doing something.