official and must not be forgotten: I am a fucking drama queen.
I am an
emotional wreck and telling an emotional wreck that he might have Parkinson’s
is not a good idea. I’m putting all thoughts of that disease behind me. I will
go to see the neurologist if requested to do so, of course, but I am certain he
will say my speech problem is not caused by a pathogen.
As for my
heart: Dr. Pimstone confirms that I have some kind of arrhythmia (I’ve already
forgotten the impossibly complex name) but he has ruled out weak blood flow to
my brain as a cause of my speech problem. He says a pacemaker is possible in my
future but I don’t need it now.
So Drama Queen
is going back to living life.
I have to stay
home today to wait for a delivery but tonight I am having drinks and dinner
with Dianne. Tomorrow I see Dr. Shoja. Thursday night I have drinks and dinner
with Robin and Friday I am going to the Museum of Vancouver with Cathy. It’s going
to be a good week. I’m glad to have social events with friends who accept my
condition. They are to-die-for precious.
And here comes
the sports dress. I have to get white tissue paper to make the baseballs I need
for the sports dress. I’ll get that either today or tomorrow. I have to wait
here at home today for the flocking to arrive that I’ll use to make the tennis
balls. (If I miss the delivery I have to go to Richmond to get it. Fucking UPS.)
The Ping Pong balls are taking forever to get here.
I have to make
the papier maché soccer, footballs and basketballs. That is going to be really
messy. This is dress number eight. I only have four more and the script to go to
finish my project.
I went to a
Sunday matinée of La La Land. I’d
been ambivalent about it until Dwight surprised me with mild approval. And I
liked it. I loved its feel and it was wonderful to forget about my problems for
I thought the
songs were particularly good. The lyrics were fabulous.
Then home for
my favourite night of TV—my only night of TV—each week: Endeavour, Victoria and Wallander were on last night. Oh my God,
I have such a crush on Sean Evans who plays Endeavour. I love the whole
ensemble on the show.
I really like
the lushness of Victoria and you never lose with the BBC. And Wallander is
Scandinavian. Need I say more? I love their cinema; it is as austere as their
thing is my appointment with Dr. Pimstone. This is the follow-up appointment to
the tests he ordered. I may be being a drama queen, but it seems to me that you
don’t call people in to tell them nothing is going to be done. I suspect I am
going to start heart medications or get the pacemaker that was tentatively
prescribed back in September.
Now, as far as
cardiology is concerned, I get on with my life.
Next up: The
neurologist promised by Dr. Montaner. I am going to be drug dependent through
this next stage—the “neurologist” stage. Last night I had a monster sense of
dread; the only way out was medicinal. I have three levels of drugs. I tool
level three last night.
If seeing the
neurologist is going to be like seeing the cardiologist it will take a long
time to get in. Then there will be tests I imagine and then more waiting to
hear the results.
At least I know
it’s neither a tumour nor a bleed. The focus of the neurologist will be
neurological disease I guess. It will feel very good to rule that kind of
problem out. And if that happens, it’s back to Dr. Montaner for a three-month
experiment with my medications to rule them out.
It took two
months to see the cardiologist. If it takes the same to see the neurologist,
and his process takes months and then the drug experiment with Dr. Montaner
takes more months, it’s pretty clear I may not have any answers to my questions
until October. Meanwhile, my speech is getting worse and my mobility—at least
in my upper body—has become a huge issue when I try to talk. Whatever is wrong
with me is getting progressively worse.
As soon as it
started I was in tears. I have not had as much fun and been as moved in the
theatre in a decade. Cuisine et Confessions by Montreal’s
theatre company, Sept droit de la main was one of the best theatre experiences of my
life. I will never forget it or the company.
it’s heavily acrobatic, its funny, its theatrical and you will never have ever
seen anything like it—ever. It’s Cirque
du Soleil but with soul. It’s about food, about love and about life and
it’s in English, French, Spanish and Swedish. It’s heaven. Heaven!
I dated a
lovely man who was deaf and mute once. It was when I lived in Nice. And
although we could barely communicate—he could only lip read French and I could
barely speak it—it didn’t matter and we both knew it because we knew it was a
I have never
met someone mute who wasn’t deaf so I understand why so many wonderfully kind
people I encounter assume I am also deaf.
I find myself
thinking of Dr. Soothe in the past tense. With all the medical drama in my life
I seem to have no energy whatsoever for him.
I am now opting
out of most social engagements. Talking is getting really difficult. I am
mostly speaking in single words or a very short phrase. It’s kind of Morse code
speech and a lot of gesturing. As I might say to Dwight: “Seem. Maybe. Mute.
Future. What. You. Think?”
actually said the phrase, “progressive aphasia,” out loud in front of me when
Dr. Montaner called her in to see me. I know what that means but she probably
thinks I didn’t. Ironically, I read a lot of books about aphasia when I was
working at Emily Carr because Julian Schnabel made a beautiful film that stunned me. It was called The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and it was about an aphasic
I'm confident that I don't have some awful disease. I think everything wrong with me is emotional. Still, its tough but not fatal.
So many gay haters turn out to be gay it makes me worry that I am going to turn into a spider.