Part 64 Outpatient valleys and peaks


I start outpatient physical and occupational therapies today at a nearby hospital. The physical therapist is Jean, a short, somewhat stern looking young lady who asks me to walk up and down steps and balance while walking along a low pole. She has me step side to side and checks my balance and peripheral vision, which are still somewhat shaky. I am convinced that I don’t really need PT that badly, and will work quickly to end this part of therapy. My occupational therapist most days will be a rather stocky, soft spoken lady from South Africa named Nana. She has a rich chuckle that flows often following my sarcastic remarks about my abilities to do the outrageous things she requires. Like grasping little pegs and placing them in holes (using, of course only my left hand), or trying to grab a sheet of paper and crumple it using only my left hand. She also has me use the seated weights, pushing out repeatedly to develop my arm strength. Unlike my confident attitude regarding my mobility and gross physical skills, I am painfully aware of my fine motor limitations, and quickly come to feel great apprehension at the OT sessions. I am frustrated that my hand dexterity has not returned as rapidly as my leg strength and general mobility have improved. Nana manages to excite me one day, however, by attaching an electric device to my left arm which jolts me and causes my fingers to curl. I am amazed! I can’t voluntarily move my fingers but they now move nonetheless.

Saturday is a particularly distressing day. I must join the choir to sing for the funeral of fellow singer Rich, who has been so supportive to Becah and me over the past months. He finally lost his long fight with this relentless disease. He was an older man, and I guess he just ran out of strength.

Becah and the kids ride bikes in the street for a parade on a sunny July 4th. Later we join the across the street neighbors lounging in their pool, with Becah joining in a rummy card game foursome.

The following day is our wedding anniversary. Becah talks me into getting a pedicure with her at a nearby spa. I feel that I could be doing something more manly than this, but it is special to Becah that I participate. (And I actually enjoy it!) After that, we go to an African restaurant, where I sip on wine while watching Becah dine.

I love early July. What’s not to love? The birth of our nation, my wedding anniversary, followed by my birthday the very next day. That’s a triple package! This birthday, however, starts off with a visit to Dr. Ra-’s office at 7:15, downtown. His office is covered with fascinating surrealist artworks, all painted by the physician himself. He discusses another surgical procedure for me, to be conducted on the 16th of the same month. I am apprehensive about this, with good reason. My last trip under the lights was terrifying, and I would do anything to avoid that happening again. However, I am forced to go through this or face the reality of the choice between choking on food that travels through my ever shrinking esophagus, or feeding myself through a leaky tube forever. Not very good options, these. As I leave, I hear someone wishing a happy birthday. I turn, and realize it is not directed to me. Dr. Ra- smiles and thanks the person. We share the same date of birth.