A Little Help from My Friends
by Venetia Bradfield
3. Refusal of the Call
A very small version of myself eased carefully through the dime-sized hole in the top of my head, created by the Mohs surgery I had suffered two years earlier to remove some skin cancer from my scalp. My toes curled when they reached the moist interior. (Damned dystonia!) I slid my body down into the soft, mushy interior until only my teeny tiny head was sticking out above my brain. It smelled funny in there, like a used, green tea bag. It was ominously quiet, but for the occasional buzzing and clicking noises. It was smoky-dark, so I waited for my eyes to adjust and for my heartbeat to settle. Then I looked up through the hole one last time, said a quick prayer, took a deep breath, and dove right down through the Central Sulcus, one of the deepest fissures of my brain.
I stealthily searched for him as I breast-stroked further and further down into my brain. I noticed a briny taste as I swam deeper. Then suddenly… I spied him. There, resting above the Substantia Nigra of my midbrain, right where I expected to find him – was the viperfish! He must have been sleeping, because he was as still as a statue of Neptune and didn’t notice my approach. I snuck up slowly behind him, grabbed him by his spiny tail, then struggled to lift him towards the top of my brain, where I had planned to thrust him out of the hole to be done with him for good.
But he would hear nothing of it! He swirled around as he awoke to look me directly in the eye, then took off at a reckless pace, racing around through the crevices of my brain trying to shake me off. He cut left, then right, snapping his tail like a whip. As my grip loosened, I ran out of breath and, realizing that I was no match for him in this game, let go of his tail in time to swim to the surface without blacking out. Gasping for air, I used the last ounce of my strength to pull myself out of the hole to safety, while his oversized jaws snapped at my feet from below.
That wasn’t my first attempt to rid myself of him. I hate to admit it, but I have refused the call on numerous occasions, more than I can count. Many a time have I struggled with the vile viperfish. The first time I refused the call was in the first few, hazy weeks immediately following my diagnosis.
After all, the neurologist had said I was “suspicious” for Parkinsonism; she didn’t state that I actually had the dreaded disease. When I had had time to reflect, I realized that she probably told most of her patients the same thing, because it was so uncomfortable for her to spring a progressive, incurable, degenerative disease on people. It was the worst part of her job! Saying that she was “suspicious for Parkinsonism,” allowed her time to flee out the door, and deal with the real discussion months later, when her patients’ shock had resolved… or had at least abated.
I certainly wasn’t planning on introducing the viperfish to my children, but I did mention to my daughter, Callie, that I was going to have an MRI and see a neurologist about my hieroglyphic handwriting. A few days later Callie asked me, “By the way, how did that MRI turn out? And what did your neurologist say?” Instantly, I felt caught in a trawling net in the benthos. (He was gnashing his teeth as he circled it.) How could I possibly answer? “The MRI was fine; the neurologist said there was evidence of ‘normal aging’.” (How incredibly rude!) “She also mentioned that I was “suspicious for Parkinsonism.” “What?” queried Callie. “What the heck does that mean?” “I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “Well, why didn’t you ask her?” “I tried to...” was my lame reply.
Within minutes of hanging up with Callie my phone rang again. It was my son Cody. He asked me the same questions. I gave him the same meek answers. Then reassured him (and myself) that the neurologist did NOT say that I actually had PD, and quickly ended the conversation. No sooner had we hung up than my oldest daughter was on the line. Word travels fast when the news is fishy. Shannon had already googled the worst; like me, she tends to doom-surf and circle the drain. “Why didn’t you tell us?” was her accusation. “Because I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” I heard myself say. And it was mostly true. I was fine…wasn’t I?
I realize now that those early conversations were my second refusal of the call. I was too young, too vigorous, too fast to be so slow! I had to go to work, to play pickleball, to kick the soccer ball around with my grandbabies!
My kids had suddenly become so suspicious of me. Why were they watching like hawks with the hope that I wouldn’t start flailing? Perhaps because when I said, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” they heard the next unspoken line. “I’ll just sit here in the dark and read.”
[ Chapter 4 coming soon ]