Welcome to Kimm's 'leave of absence' blog...

If you're here it's because you know me through my Guerrilla Tactics seminars and books...and you know that I'm taking an exceptionally involuntary semester off to deal with some unresolved medical issues. In this blog I'll keep you up to date on how I'm doing and it goes without saying that if you're interested at all, I'm very grateful.

In these first few posts I will get you up to date with some memorable moments along the way. I can't tell you what a relief it is to finally be able to dish about this!

I mentioned in my initial email that I had been diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease about a year and a half ago.

That isn't precisely what happened.

In the Fall of 2007 I noticed that my handwriting was deteriorating, slowly but, to me, perceptibly. I went to my doctor and asked her about it, and she said, 'I don't think it's anything, but I'll send you to a neurologist.' Now, outside of OB/GYN's I don't pretend to know medical specialties but I did know one thing about neurologists because I sat next to one on a plane once, who told me, "If you ever get referred to me, it's never good news." The reason this woman stuck in my mind was that she had apparently taken leave of neurology - and her senses - to create 'corporate care packages,' like teddy bears and sachets and such for office workers, and she'd been on Oprah to talk about it. The rest of the time she nattered about Oprah and care packages and didn't, to my curiosity albeit relief, address what made neurologists such bad news. (To tell the truth I've never watched Oprah and the only show I'm waiting for is the one where she...you know ;) .)

Anyway! This neurologist - we'll call her 'Defendant A' - gave me some simple tests - open and close a safety pin, touch my nose with my finger,walk a straight line - really, things you'd give an exceptionally stupid drunk driver - and said, 'There's nothing wrong with you, you're imagining it.' To placate me more than anything else - a kind of consolation prize for neurological losers - she ordered two tests for me: an EMG (I think that's what it's called, either that or an EMG is a British Sports Car) and a brain MRI.

I asked her scheduler the question I always ask about medical tests: "Will it hurt?"and she responded, "It's...interesting." Translated for the layperson that means: "Start screaming now." What the doctor does in this test is take a needle hooked to a machine and systemically stab all of the muscles in one part of your body with it, to check the electrical response. I found out later on that they use this test to eliminate the possibility of Lou Gehrig's Disease, ALS (and also Steven Hawking's ailment for all of you brainiacs), and if ever there was a disease you wanted to eliminate immediately, it's ALS, a gruesome virtual death sentence. Anyway, it turns out that most of your muscles aren't too sensitive, and I was just getting cocky, thinking, "Wow, I have really nutted up," when Defendant A said,"This one's gonna hurt."
YEEEE=OWWWW!
She intelligently said this as she sank the needle into a particularly tender part of my palm. Those little muscles in your hand don't take kindly to poking, let me tell you. But pretty soon that was over, I passed, and it was on to the brain MRI.

I don't know if you've ever had an MRI, but they basically load you into what looks like a giant PVC tube wearing a football helmet and bounce these really annoying metallic sounds around in your head for forty-five minutes.

They tell you up front, "It's not scary."

They tell you they'll play the radio for you "Although we only get one station."

Then they fit you into this human-shaped plastic serving dish, strap you in, put the football helmet on you, tell you "Don't be scared."

Then they press a little wand into your hand, and when you ask what it is, they say, "Oh, that's your panic button."

Now, I may not know much about psychology, but I'm pretty sure if you want to keep people calm, you don't use the term "panic button." But it really wasn't very scary; it was more annoying than anything else, especially since the radio station they got was one step above those airport parking stations. "Hello! Welcome to Suburban Blotnick International Airport. Parking is available in Lots B and C. The National Transportation Safety Bureau reminds you that the threat level is Orange and also reminds you that you have no idea what that means. Hello! Welcome to Suburban Blotnick..."

So I waited with baited breath for a week for the test results, and got a call from Defendant A telling me, "Your brain MRI came back. There's nothing there." I laughed and told her, "Doc, did you have to say it that way? Couldn't you say 'There's nothing there that's not supposed to be there?" She didn't think it was the least bit funny, my first introduction to the fact that neurologists are sorely lacking a sense of humour.

Coming next: Defendant B.