El NeuroMigre

Back after another followup at the neurologist.    Interesting conversation – apparently, the problem is all in my head.

 

But, there too, may lay the solution.

 

How convenient. 

 

Research points to the presence of dormant stem cells already there in your own brain – already there – no need to conduct some surreptitious cell harvesting from the unformed brain of a preborn spawn of some frantic juvenile coupling –

Though I do remember those being ‘kinda fun – the stem cells, the are ALREADY THERE  - inside your own head, an unused bench of new hitters for your cognitive world series, the one that really matters – the one that is you.

 

Imagine – there they are, all lined up on the bench in crisp outfits, telling off color jokes, their witty urban banter punctuated only by the occasion emission of a spent chaw of chewing tobacco,   All set !  So what the is the problem???

 

They’re asleepL

Dormant…

Unconscious, unknowing.

Totally and blissfully unaware

 

So, my neurologist tells me, the engineering task from the pharmacological perspective is to first wake up all the little bastards and then direct them to migrate to precisely the right location in your ‘wittle head, link dendrites and fill the gap of their dead and dying Brothers of the Dopamine order, to stand in the breech singing kumbaya and  forever  cure that what ‘ails ye, afflicted readers of this blog. 

 

Piece of cake, no? Take two aspirins, eye of newt and call me in the morning….

 

Clearly not an easy task – but I felt momentarily positive thinking that maybe a solutions does lurk near.   Migrating stem cells – why didn’t I think of that?

 

Then I did think of that and here is what I think I thought:

 

If it were me, if I were one of those neuromigrants, and you woke me up – well, first of all, then I’d be pissed….no-one likes being woken up, right?   And then, after waking me (remember, I’m pissed) – now what do you do?  Hand me marching orders to assemble somewhere  within the Substancia Nigra, not the best neighborhood by far, hell, I’ve never been there, and while the march for racial equality may have indeed transcended its challenge with the election of Obama in macro-world, whose to say that my sleepy Grey – matter brothers would ever willingly move to a place characterized by all the Dark Matter of the substancia nigra –never underestimate the predjudice of of pigmentation.

 

No – as a young, recently awoken plurapotent stemcell no way in hell that I’m about to willingly hitch my wagon to a dying brain.   Hell no, I don’t want to be an enable of some near-50 mid career frustrated- high school band director- who left New York to find fame and fortune in Hollywood as a wanna-be film composer, who went from wanna be to has been with out having been there.

Just because he HAD potential and squandered it, now you ‘tellin me that me, with my infinite stem cell superpowers I have to go and shoot my wad on some bum like that?   You talking to me?  You TALKING TO ME?  

 

Great…. now you’ve gone and radicalized the little bastards…

 

 

Desperate times call for desperative measures.    Woken and ordered to do the

“Man’s” work – with no say in the matter – its entirely reasonable to assume that a critical mass of the newly politicized neuroMigre would look for ways out….hop on the bus, Gus,..make a new plan, stan…..Hitch a ride on the gust of a sneeze, sling down a thread of mucus hanging from your nose, swinging like a little Tarzan in hopes of  somehow finding the way into the head of an up and coming basketball star, supermodel or at least that of a musician who knows better than to do clubdates as a sideman……    

 

Migrating Stem Cells – wake ‘em up, tell em where to go, what to do, and don’ talk back or ask too many question.    So what do you make of the odds?

 

Go figure,

Modemdavid

Sparring with the Muse....

Before being hit with the reality of PD, as a keyboard musician I would from time to time amuse myself with the morose projection "what would happen if I somehow lost use of my hands" - one of the most terribilest thoughts there is to a working musician - and for the bulk of my teens through early 40's this is what I was -
now, confronting the reality of the gradual but insistent loss of the fine motor control integral to piano technique I find myself having to deal with this experience, not in a traumatic way, i.e. losing your hands in an unfortunate accident, but rather with a torturously slow attrition of those abilities which I've taken for granted for so long.

So it was this week that I approached two music events - the first, a rehearsal session with some top L.A. veteren musicians - these are the guys that play behind all the big name artists when passing through town, the musicals at the Pantages, the Hollywood Award Shows, all the way up to major film dates and all the way down to the monkeysuit jobs at Bar Mitzvahs, Weddings and corporate events of every ilk.

Walking into the session with my gimply left hand was a little disconcerting, and I started out without the quiet assumed conidence in my competence that always till recently accompanied me to the stage - I may not be able to dribble a basketball for shit, but I can always kick musical butt on the keys - and it was a bit of a hard start, but as we got into the second number and on, it was good to start to feel the left hand join in the dance, running on fumes maybe, but still running. From a playing perspective, I've always been more of an 'architectural' player than a virtuoso - i.e., more inclined, attuned to 'surgically' playing the right note, harmony or punctuation at the right time to support the music rather than playing rapid-fire improvisations - and, for where I am now and may be going, this approach serves me well.

I am always impressed playing with senior musicians - guys in their 60s to even into the 90s' - by how undiminished and strong their music making can be - and, looked forward to maybe one day joining the club of back-slapping wizened old geezers trading stories between numbers - I dunno, hard to say where I'll be in 10,20 years even without the PD issues - still, it felt good to get out there and swim with the fishes again for a bit.

Played a second, paying job, solo piano - this started out easier and ended harder.....by the third hour the control and manual dexterity in my left hand had almost completely departed - walking bass lines out of the question, barely able to drop my fingers on the keys save for dropping the entire arm .....got through it but with a considerable degree of difficultly at the end.

No great cathartic thought this time around.....just observing the dance.

Haiku for Waterbugs

Wise old Waterbug!
Cowers from hot yellow river
Of first morning piss...




Authors note: a true haiku, a transient relationship captured in literary amber....and for the
Stalevo users among you, you know from bright yellow piss, though you shouldn't ought to know from....
anyway, was captivated by the mini-drama played out in the rim of the toilet between my 6 legged friend and his artful dodging of a toxic niagra falls.....

The Secret Life of Modem Mitty...the Applesause Files

“Come with me, sit” said the lithe young woman as she guided me into the small sunlit private room.

Smiling wryly, she sat directly in front of me and encouraged me to relax and prepare for what was to come. “Now look at me…I want to really see your face” Our eyes lock as the sunlit grey perfectly shaped orbs of her pupils peered deeply into my tired brown peepers. “Good, yes, that's very good, now – here’s where it can get a little strange, ready?”

“Ready” I say, still tense and apprehensive but calmed some by her warm hand pressed on my knee.

“Okay – now do just what I tell you – open your mouth”

I obey and present the impressive collection of porcelain crowns that helped my old friend the dentist put his third child through private college without a second mortgage.

“Good...very good....… now, watch me.” My heart races as she leans forward and extends her tongue towards me and slowly licks the perimeter of her full well shaped mouth…..”Now you…let me see you use your tongue”

To the inner soundtrack of Gene Krupa hopped up on goofballs going ape on jungle toms I extend my tongue towards her and, with great sensuality circle the perimeter of my mustachioed pie-hole. I know she can feel my hotness...

“Mmmhhh…yes, very good” “Ok, now I will touch you, ok? I will touch your cheek”

A her delicate hand comes close to my face I detect the faint smell of almonds and insecticide – Prince Matchibelly ‘or a good generic I posit…

“Now, you can feel my finger on your cheek, yes? Good then, now use your tongue and press hard against it....yes, do it now, hard!”


With a manly grunt I thrust my tongue hard to starboard, and despite the insistent pressure of her manicured finger manage to hold my own. As she retracts her hand, clearly impressed by my masterful command of Tounge Fu, her white overcoat pulls back to reveal the outline of a young, tight yet ample bosom…..

“Hmmmm……ok….very good then…..now this part can get a little "freaky" for some….we’re going to use food…”

Images of whipped cream body sculpture, immoral acts of epic debauchery using cucumbers and organic arugala in ways never imagined by nature, topped off, naturally, by a fine Cuban cigar dance shamelessly through my mind when my wild reverie is shattered by the utterance of a single word…

“Crackers!”

Ouch…..no erotic potential I can see in them…lets get back to the whipped cream….

“Crackers!...... let me see what happens when you eat one…go ahead”

My fantasie irreparably broken, I return to earth and begin to munch on the dry hardtack as the swallowing specialist with almond eyes and ample bosom stares intently at my throat and makes notes as I struggle to get my Parkinson’s addled throat musculature to move the masticated cracker down the gullet.
This is not how the fantasy was to end…

And in reality, this is not the end, but rather it seems to me the beginning of another phase, where I who maintained an inner self image of an immortal and timeless 25 year old must really begin to reconcile with the truth that the hot medical babe featured in earlier really has z-e-r-o interest in my world-class studliness, but rather sees me as an early geriatric case, an object for study, assessment and statistic, as fodder for the medical file.

So, after noticing a definite decline in swallowing ability I find myself the object of a swallowing study – to be followed in a week or so with a real-time imaging study where you get to drink fou-fou fluorescent and slightly radioactive Mai Tai's while wearing an offwhite hospital gown last worn by who-knows-who who,as everyone knows, has an awful problem with their who-knows-what.

So, knocked down to size, I manage to wrestle the cracker into submission with the help of a few gulps of water….the secret, she says, not to succumb to the potential pneumonias or choking episodes that Parkinson’s can enable, is to chew r-e-a-l-l-y carefully and always have something handy to help slog a stuck morsel down your unresponsive gullet….like applesause, or babyfood.

So I finish the appointment, listen to the minilecture on mindful eating and schedule the next event. On the way out, she thrusts a phamplet with the obligatory smiling grey-haired couple (“Swallowing and You”) into my hands….and, checking to first see that no-ones looking, she says ‘wait…something special for you…take it!’ (ah, so she is hot for me) – and before I can thank her or find the words to say on parting she is gone, leaving only the persistent fog of her perfume to remind me that she was even ever her.

Out in the sunlight, by my newly ticketed car I open the brown paper bag with excitedly and with great anticipation…….a three pack, Motts Individual Servings, Easy Chew Applesause with tear away lids.

"Smile when you say that" :( A Coffee Saga......)

SHIT!
Roll out of bed late last Thursday .... well, 'roll' is too slick of a word here....more like 'struggle' to work two numb arms with radiating pain in the left shoulder (is it the PD? spinal stenosis? or just a likely torn rotator cuff?) ......as the Stones chestnut 'what a drag it is....getting old" plays on a repeating loop in my fuzzy head. Coffee...

Rushing to get organized I whack my toe but good into a 25 pound freeweight.....more pain, but not enough to do the trick... still not awake.....need coffee.....need coffee.....

Loop through the kitchen on a mad dash to the door and .....SHIT!SHIT!.....out of coffee!!! Ok, it's gonna be ok....will stop on the way to work for a good cup, something strong enough to defend itself....

Make it over to my Mitsubishi, the one with the skin condition ..... notice the air in one tire is low...no time....key in trunk and.....SHIT! SHIT!SHIT!..... the trunk doesn't open...another 'freakin repair ahead...

Cut off by a methed-out tow truck on a short but perilous drive to the local coffee spot. At least its a non-Starbucks place where they don't comment on the cleverness of your order in faux British accent ( "As, yes a fair-trade double whipped moca yaya deep fried unleaded moccafreakin'chinno in a environmentally friendly recyclable tall cup....e-x-c-e-l-l-e-n-t choice, sir!)

Definitely not in the mood for that.

Just coffee....Java, java, java its very near now.....things 'gonna get better......as my wheels scrapes the curb I know I've made it - slam the door shut, noting the weak thud as my last plastic hubcap falls to the pavement.....make it quick 17 steps into the shop....
hmmmm, maybe I'll order a nice piece of rugalah while I'm here....its gonna get better

I was in no way prepared for what happened next:

'Coffee' I mutter

'Sorry, sir...no coffee for you ' says she.

My blank but clearly pre-murderous look from me prompts her to elaborate...

'Ok....I can serve you....but only if you smile!!!' she beams.

'Just the coffee, please' I say.

'No.....I'm serious sir!.....no smile, no coffee!'

Now while I'm not a depresive, truth be know I'm just not a smily type --- especially ear-lie in the morning on demand.....still Modem's a good sport, and I tell my dopamine and caffene starved brain to wire a message to my hairy cheeks (...not those ones! the face, the face!...) to mobilize and pull skywards.....stand there for about 15 seconds in the effort .....nope, can't get it up...(hey! watch it! not that! the cheeks! the hairy cheeks! hey! watch it not those...)

My hands slam down on the counter in....
"JUST GIMME THE DAGNABBED COFFEE!!!!"

I note the calculating look on the pale young face of the counter girl as she wisely steps back to the hot urn of bubblin' joe and pours a measured cup , all the while keeping one eye pegged on the crazy man seething at the register. As she places it calmly on the counter and now looks sykward , raising her arms akimbo and launches into a sermon for the witnesses in heaven " very well sir....it is your life and if you really want to spend it bereft of the joy that a smile can bring I suppose that there really is nothing anyone can really do to make you ..."

..... I tune her out as a spiral column of caffeinated bliss wafts towards my waiting nostrils. I venture a sip, and the haze starts to clear, ahh to be human again, human again....her voice fades back up .....'just here to help and a smile helps all of us ....you really should smile sir" she says with a smile.

I take another sip staring contentently past her towards the pastry case.
Hmmmmm, maybe I will have that rugalah after all.....

"Rugalah" I say blankly...

"Of course, sir ...but only if you smile!"

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Postscript:

Made it out with only my coffee....tire now fully flat...SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT!..late for work and spilled all the 'freaking coffee fixing the tire.......telling the story later in the day I found I couldn't help but .... smile.

Bastard!.....she won......

go figure....

:)

What 500 Channel Cable can Teach Us 'bout PD

Thanks to 500 channel cable I recently caught a few late night 'Kojak' episodes - 'still have more hair than that grizzled SOB but I actually used to drive the same Kojak car - a monkey-shit brown Buick Century V8 around the Bronx back in the early '80s.

So, they get a bad guy, but they ain't got the evidence and next thing you know they've got him hanging out a 12th story window held only by the greasy hands of a coupla'thugs - you know how these shows go - and either they drop him (rarely) or pull the broken and repentant bastard
back in and get whatever info they came for...then they wack him ......

At first, the diagnosis of PD is - if you'll permit a wide metaphor - much like being thrust out a window held only by an ankle - your entire perception, your innerscript of how your life would play out is scrambled and spinning -- but then

then...its different.

No one pulls you back in. No one drops you. Nothing happens....yet you're still looking decidedly at the pavement as if the goons who got you into this decided to go for lunch and cuffed your inverted feet to a pipe - and then forgot to ever return after 3 boilermakers too many....

I can accept complete change
I can deal with a brush with peril.
I don't know how to deal with this 'dangling'......and this is the crux of the existential challenge by the longterm progressive degenerative reality of P.D.

Part of me secretly envys the quick exit enjoyed by some. Take Omar, from the 'Wire' shot in the back of the head by young thug...never saw it coming...
As in all things, the anticipation of the thing itself is the most difficult to bear - all of us come and go....'suppose we all get a different view of the process depending upon our karmic need, tikkun, luck of the draw?
....go figure.... :)