The Call to Adventure

Larry Gifford

August 18, 2017, is a date seared in my soul. If I close my eyes, I can be transported into the uncomfortable chairs in the sterile, hallway-waiting area at the UBC Brain Centre in Vancouver. It smelled clean. It’s an impressive building by all accounts aside from the paintings of generic flowers hanging on the walls and the very empty racks where brochures were surely placed at some point. I was holding Bec’s hand as we watched patients living with Multiple Sclerosis and Parkinson’s shuffle and roll to their appointments. Some barely audible. Others drooling.  I inadvertently swallowed hard, understanding that could be me -– in five years? Ten years? I don’t know.

“Larry?” The voice belonged to a guy waving me back to his office. “I’m Jonathon Squires,” he said nonchalantly, to make a more personal connection. I wasn’t looking for a pal, I needed a neurologist. Dr. Squires was in his late-30s with prematurely graying hair. He let me walk in front of him. A trick I’d later learn all the neurologists use so they can observe your walk in as natural of a habitat as possible.

We spent some time on intake and got the basics and niceties out of the way.

Then it was straight into the tests. I had to take my finger from nose to his finger about 18 inches away going back and forth as quickly as possible. In my head I’m wondering -- what’s a good number of times to show him I’m normal ? More than five for sure. It didn’t matter, as I struggled out of the gate. Next test, bring your forefinger together with your thumb, tap them and then open them really wide and repeat as many times as possible.

That was the “Oh, shit!” moment.

I couldn’t do it even once. I could feel the panic building inside. My natural response is to confront uncomfortable situations with humor. Think of something Larry, quick.

“Well, I guess I won’t be doing that anymore.” The quip was thick with sarcasm, since I’d never had a need to put these digits in action together like that. The doc didn’t laugh. Inside I was awash in failure, fear, and foreboding. The tests continued. I could not lift my heel or tap my toes, lift my legs, or do much of anything right that day. 

After the battery of tests, which would in time become routine, the Doc sat down across from Bec and I and looked at me. He said, “You definitely have some Parkinsonism’s and probably Parkinson’s disease.”

Those words rattled in my head, “probably?” Silently I screamed, “Probably? You are a real doctor, aren’t you?” Meekly I asked if there is a test I can take to be sure. Dr. Squires assured me there was only one test he could give that could provide the answers I was looking for – an autopsy. Nope.

My head was spinning. “Parkinson’s” echoed in my head. Parkinson’s? Bullshit. I did not order this. Send it back. 

Dr. Squires was still talking. “It’s a degenerative, progressive disease. Everyone’s journey with the disease is different.” I heard Charlie Brown’s teacher take over, “Wah wah, waw wah, wah...”  

I’m sure he advised us not to Google it. We didn’t. Not until we got to the parking lot.