I feel sorry for my neurologist. Most people are scared shitless at the thought of a decline in function, despite the fact that there is no cure for Alz. All the news is not fit to print. It’s basically the same story every time you go to his office...count backward by sevens from 100, do a little worse than last quarter, maybe try to get him to smile, try to make some sort of conversation—I try to joke with him, but it doesn’t usually work. It’s stressful for me, and for him it must be a total drag, as he presides over the inevitable decline that is the hallmark of the disease. I bet he didn’t really want to wind up here...in this backwater office, buried in the bowels of arguably the “greatest medical institution of all time...”. (reverb echo effect), (Johns Hopkins preferred bold type face)...maybe he likes it this way. You can’t blame somebody for not curing an incurable disease. You can make jokes during the exam, but the memory tests always seem to confound one, at some point...it’s a no win game, but at least I can go home and watch the Fall migration, with scores of hawks, the occasional falcon, an eagle or two, plenty of broad wings...I don’t care for rarities, and there is comfort in the same species every year, like returning salmon, or the last visit to a childhood fishing hole...even unseen, the wings and calls of the airborne river of thermal delight lightens my spirits and hints at the next life when I can turn the tables, looking down at the upturned binoculars, laughing to see so many avid eyes searching...for me and my friends. Until then, it’s chin up and pass the field guide.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Fall Migration in the alzheimer world
I feel sorry for my neurologist. Most people are scared shitless at the thought of a decline in function, despite the fact that there is no cure for Alz. All the news is not fit to print. It’s basically the same story every time you go to his office...count backward by sevens from 100, do a little worse than last quarter, maybe try to get him to smile, try to make some sort of conversation—I try to joke with him, but it doesn’t usually work. It’s stressful for me, and for him it must be a total drag, as he presides over the inevitable decline that is the hallmark of the disease. I bet he didn’t really want to wind up here...in this backwater office, buried in the bowels of arguably the “greatest medical institution of all time...”. (reverb echo effect), (Johns Hopkins preferred bold type face)...maybe he likes it this way. You can’t blame somebody for not curing an incurable disease. You can make jokes during the exam, but the memory tests always seem to confound one, at some point...it’s a no win game, but at least I can go home and watch the Fall migration, with scores of hawks, the occasional falcon, an eagle or two, plenty of broad wings...I don’t care for rarities, and there is comfort in the same species every year, like returning salmon, or the last visit to a childhood fishing hole...even unseen, the wings and calls of the airborne river of thermal delight lightens my spirits and hints at the next life when I can turn the tables, looking down at the upturned binoculars, laughing to see so many avid eyes searching...for me and my friends. Until then, it’s chin up and pass the field guide.
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That's it. That time flat on my back on the roof of Webster House - suddenly inhabiting the viewpoint of those sunset swallows across an electric red schenectady sky. A glimpse of the next life indeed.
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