My Fourth

Yesterday I watched a program on Nova about the brain and music. It featured the author and neurological researcher Oliver Sacks, who at one point reminisced about the music of his childhood. The segment immediately conjured thoughts of music in my own childhood. My family had a collection of vinyl recordings featuring the Great Composers. Even now I can picture the thick maroon-colored slipcases, which would fold out revealing short biographies of each composer. I forget how many discs were in each box. Even stranger is the fact that I can’t remember a record player. I remember the large Telefunken radio with its soft light and multiple frequency bands. I remember listening to episodes of ‘Gunsmoke’ as broadcast by the Armed Forces Radio Network while sitting on the floor of an apartment in Ben Franklin Village. This was in Mannheim, Germany during the early sixties. But I can’t remember a record player.

I developed an early passion for Beethoven. Then Wagner. I still like his music, though I’m sure I would have detested him as a person. Self-important, narcissistic, anti-Semitic bastard. But I’ve gone far beyond Beethoven and Wagner. I listen to everything from French chansons to Russian ballads to Arabic electro-pop.

Then I took a nap. Just try sitting in one position for sixteen straight hours. It is just plain uncomfortable. I did receive a call from my father wishing me a happy Fourth of July. At eighty-eight years of age he sounds strong and in good spirits. I can only wish I had his vitality.

In the evening my aide brought me a burger her family had prepared on the grill. We sat and watched ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ until the sound of the neighbors’ fireworks drove us outside for a look. Short but loud. What a party they had!

Then we went inside and she helped me into bed. Sweet kid.

That was my Fourth of diminished expectations.

Wednesday

Today I went to see my neurologist. My aide, a really cute twenty-two year old nursing student at a local college, had to help me get my pants and shoes on. Just two more mundane tasks I find it increasingly difficult to manage on my own. Still, it's a real plus to have a charming and competent young woman available to help me out with these tasks.

The ambulance transport arrived late in the morning. I was glad to see that the driver was someone familiar. This guy has been giving me rides for years. Rather taciturn, but smiling. Easy to get along with.

The doctor's office had the hush of a library. Patients in various states of disability, afraid to raise their voices. All whispers. A receptionist calls out my name and I call out in response. "No. No change in insurance. No change in address." I've come to learn long ago to dismiss all pretense to modesty. Or, having had to give up any hope of living a normal life I just don't really care.

So it's off to the examination room to wait some more. A piece of hotel wall art, undoubtedly picked up at some "starving artists" sale, catches my eye. The painter had signed it 'Maxmilian'. It's 'Maximilian', I thought. With an 'i'. Later I discovered my error, 'Maxmilian' being a legitimate variant spelling.

"Look! A picture of the brain," my aide remarks. She's a young nursing student, and such things still interest her. I've seen enough.

"Where?"

"On the wall back here." I can't twist around far enough to see it. One of the many things I can no longer do.

The doctor arrives. "Your looking good!"

"It's my new skin toner," I respond, knowing as well as him that this whole appointment will be both perfunctory and, well, pointless. But I need my prescription refilled.

"No, no! you didn't look this good the last time I saw you." The guy's not bad. And he is supposed to be among the best in the state. But I know there's nothing he can do. And he knows this. He can't do anything to help me out of this chair. Or to make my left arm and hand work again.. That's just the way it is.

"I'm always amazed that you've been able to maintain such a positive state of mind. Most people wouldn't be able to face your situation in such good spirits."

I sort of wish he wouldn't say that. It's sort of like saying, "Why aren't you suicidal yet?"

"Well, I thank my father for that. He raised me to be positive." Sounds like a cliche, I know. But it's true. No sarcasm. And I'm duly thankful.

"Well, it looks like there hasn't been any change in your MS. It may very well not progress any farther." I know there's absolutely no basis for his prognosis. But what the hell.

So the doctor writes out a script for some more phenytoin, I wheel across the hall, where a tech probes both my arms to find a vein that will produce enough blood for the lab. I then make an appointment for three months hence. I'm glad I'm not charged a co-pay, because I left all my cash at home. Asking my aide to front me fifteen bucks, now that'd embarrass me.

I trundle out to the parking lot just as my transport van pulls up. I smile at this little bit of luck. The sun's shining but there's a little breeze. After a rolling and bumpy ride my aide and I get home. I shake hands with the smiling driver, roll through my front door, and I'm home again.

Ahhhh. Nice and familiar.