As some of you know, I’ve been under a doctor’s care. A young neurologist who has put me through testing hell. Well, the research has concluded without any concrete explanation in regards to my hearing loss.
The last attempt at raising it was 3 mega shots of steroids in my arm three days in a row times 3 which makes 9 syringes of poison at the hospital lab, not the cheeriest venue to spend your day in. I sat in a big chair while a nurse in aqua scrubs shot 1000 milligrams of a steroid called, Solumedrol, through my veins smiling like a loopy stewardess. All it did was keep me up for a week, not making a difference in any other area.
The doctor’s response after six months of every test known to man was…I’m sorry Miss. Bianchi.
It gave being let down all new meaning. I blame myself knowing more about hearing loss than she does and should have known better. After almost four years and fourteen specialists, I could lecture at Yale.
I’m trying not to be angry since she meant well. She’s young and hopeful, and frankly, the only one who really tried coming up with a viable prognosis. Pays to be 28 and pain free with medical stars in your eyes.
The good news…I’ve been exempt from every other illness like MS and Lupus, AIDS and Lyme Disease. Cancer across the board. There’s something to be said about that since I no longer wake up at 3 a.m. wondering if I’ll get Parkinson’s like Michael J. Fox, one of my favorite actors.
A last will and testament leaving all my earthly possessions to Carmela and her friends at the Tri-state Basset Hound Rescue Site. Imagine how great they’ll look in my collection of French sailor shirts.
Along with that…one foot in front of the other…the next right action to take as you let go and let God drive the car you’re about to ram right through a wall.
Today I ran into a woman who has bad eyesight due to a botched cataract operation and can only read sparingly using a 10-ply magnifying glass.
There’s Mrs. A. around the corner who had a stroke, now taking her over an hour to walk across the street to buy a few groceries then back again, pushing her little chic Burberry patterned shopping cart like it weighed a million pounds.
I wrote about the model who lost her mind I saw drifting down Madison on the arm of an attendant, a shred of her former self having no clue who she is nor was.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I can live with the disappointment of no substantial reason for my plight. When you think about it, it was a long shot anyway. Things happen to people as they get older, and that’s when it’s time to rummage in back of the closet for that grace you thought you’d never need.
Hey, here it is, right next to that hubris hiding its sorry, now humbled head in front of my Vercace ball gown I just may put on to remind myself, there once was a moment I could still hear the music.