Side Effect?

…and it’s not because I don’t want to diarize here, and I love keeping this blog… whenever I remember to do it.

A caveat: This entry may have more typos than usual, which is something that never pleases me.  The reason is because I may be having a bad reaction to my Lithium.

At least I hope that’s what it is.

I took the morning off from work to deliver Susie to the Davis Center and so Steph and I could meet an attorney downtown (we are not divorcing, so let’s not jump to conclusions here, beloved readers).  After the meeting, Steph and I were having a late breakfast in Jack’s Diner, a place I highly recommend.

During breakfast, Steph said to me, “You look terrible.”  I thought she was commenting on my clothes, since I spend 30-45 seconds per day choosing what I’ll wear, so I waved it away…

…and Steph stared because my left hand was jittering like a tuning fork.  She was appalled at how both hands, left and right, were shaking.  (I had tried all morning to keep something in my hand–my MP3 player, a notebook, Susie’s hand–to try and hide this.)  I shrugged it off and said, “It’s the Lithium.”

She shook her head.  “You’re shaking like you have Parkinson’s.”

Yes, I was shaking, but not nearly as badly as Muhammad Ali when I saw him with his daughter on Dancing with rhe Stars, or the way John Paul II looked the last few years of his life.  “It’s not all that bad,” I said.

“You remind me of Muhammad Ali,” said Steph.  (I am not used to be compared to him!)

I cancelled my evening plans and I’m meeting Steph and Susie for dinner at the Happy Greek.  Even as I speak write, they’re at Hairspray.  I told Steph I don’t know what this is, the shortness of breath is another variable in the soup.  I told Steph I am going to ride it out until after 12.  We’re going to a Harry Potter soiree at the Kroger’s in the Brewery District tonight–and shopping for groceries.  I told Steph that no matter what this is, I am not going to ruin this Harry Potter event for Susie.

As a former typesetter, I am pleased with the way this entry has come out thus far, but please know I have given the “backspace” key quite a beating since I began.

Oddly enough, I have already been tested for Parkinson’s.  Early in 2000, right after my dad passed away, I was seeing my then-psychiatrist in Bexley.  I wondered why he was staring at my hands during most of the appointment (“No, my wedding ring is not for sale,” I wanted to say, “and neither are the other rings, because Steph gave them to me”).  He then wrote out an order for me to go to Ohio State’s medical compound for an MRI.

I still don’t see why MRIs freak some people out.  I lay on my back, minus all my jewelry and anything else metal, and it looked like they were sticking my head in a front-loading dryer.  They piped in classical music (courtesy of WOSU-FM) and there was a microphone inside, so you could communicate with the technician.

It came back normal, and Steph and I believe now that it was some Asperger’s mannerism that I no longer even could notice myself doing, and that was what he thought might have been Parkinson’s.

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