Potpourri #2: This, That, and a Wish

Bell's Palsy

As if I had nothing else with which to struggle, now I have Bell's Palsy. I look like the poor man on the right except that the left side of my face is paralyzed, not the right. Actually, I look worse than he does. My tear ducts are involved and I can't close my left eye. The resulting pain and dryness require me to use eye drops frequently, as well as a special gel at night. My attempts at smiling would terrify children.

Last Tuesday, with a gusher of tears, more from the left eye than the right, it all began. Also, at the same time, my vision changed dramatically for the worse: my left eye, usually nearly 20-20, could barely see. By Thursday I had seen two ophthalmologists, both of whom insisted that I immediately get an MRI and see a neurologist. Which I did. My brain is normal: there is no obvious cause of the paralysis (and, blessedly, no sign of cancer). When they can't find a cause, they call it Bell's Palsy. Perhaps the problem is viral.

The onset of paralysis was quite rapid. On the way to the ophthalmologist I could drink water from a sports-top bottle. By the time the examination ended I could not: the water fell out of the paralyzed side onto my shirt.

The most trying aspect is that it remains horribly difficult to read.

In any case, there's nothing to be done except perhaps for acupuncture. I hope the condition will resolve itself, as it often does, but it can be permanent.

 

Learning to Walk

To begin the transplant, I walked sturdily into Scripps Green Hospital weighing about 195 lbs. Almost four months later I had to be carried out on a gurney, having lost some 45 lbs of fat and muscle. I was literally flaco, or "skin and bone," in Spanish.

For the longest time, I could not handle stairs. So, four or five times, when I needed to see the doctor, a medical transportation outfit carried me down the stairs, drove me to the office, drove me back, then carried me up the stairs to my bedroom. I was always frightened, with good reason, of being dropped on the staircase.

One day, while riding in the back of the ambulance, I overheard the sidekick, who looked like he desperately needed a cigarette, talking to the driver:

I was really surprised. I was already in jail for something else, so the judge let me off with time served!  

His speech was strikingly matter-of-fact in this somewhat alarming revelation. Afterward I worked hard to use the stairs: that was the last time I let them or anyone else carry me.

The piano once again beckons me, but being "out of practice" hardly describes my playing. I have lost so much muscle that I am no match for the concert grand, and, worst of all, every hint of gracefulness is gone. Also, my memory has taken a huge hit. I had memorized everything I liked to play, seldom forgetting much. Now I struggle to remember any of the pieces that, formerly, I could play in the dark (and, like Mozart, who was a ridiculous show-off, even upside-down). I do have an old recording of me playing Gershwin's Prelude in C# minor, which was the starting point of my venturing into jazz. A couple of years later I had made the Prelude my own, with all manner of improvisations, but I have no recording of where I left off. Today I can't play it at all. I can't manage the huge stretches. I wish I could put up a better recording for you, but that will take some time.

The Moravian Star

Nearly every day, two of my children, Sharon and Jared, who now live with Ivonne and me, ask, "Where is the star for the tree?" And every day I check Amazon.com for tracking information. At long last I think it is in San Diego and might be here tomorrow.

This is the first time I've celebrated Christmas since converting to Judaism many decades ago. This is largely because, on Christmas Eve, my wife will be in Tijuana with her other two children, Nahomy and Ruben, along with one or two hundred of her closest cousins. There will be feasting, churching, drinking, shooting guns at midnight, and sharing food gifts with the neighbors and others. At dawn they can finally sleep. I know this is an wholly inadequate description of the Tijuana version of Las Posadas, but perhaps next year I'll be strong enough to experience it for myself.

However, that leaves Sharon, Jared and me by ourselves, and the last thing I'm emotionally prepared to cope with is the moping of a couple of lonely daughters. So we are celebrating Christmas this year, probably a day early so that Ivonne can be with us. I have a gift for the girls which I hope will make them completely forget that they aren't in TJ.

I don't mind celebrating Christmas this year. I even asked a friend to climb into the attic to retrieve decorations that have been in my family for more than sixty years. Along with the solstice, which I believe in as steadfastly as any Druid, Christmas signifies for me the possibility of a new or better life. Like the principal theme in American literature, Christmas tells us that it is always possible to start over without the well-earned tribulations of the past. May all of us, and especially we cancer patients, embrace the spirit of Christmas during these, the longest and darkest nights of the year.