HEADCASE

My original trainers.

My wife isn't the only person who's advised me to get my head examined. But she
was the first who meant it. 

It started when I watched a YouTube arm exercise video aimed at oldsters like me. Unlike similar lessons meant for those in the Gen Z territory, this one had me flummoxed.

Let arm out, right arm in front? Or was it the opposite? Should I mirror the instructor or move my left arm when she said "left arm"? Why couldn't I keep one arm still while moving the other? Why was I moving like a damaged push puppet?

If I were a zebra.

To be sure, "overly-coordinated" isn't an adjective that could describe me. For example, unlike the heroes in romcoms who commandeer the Central Park rowboats for their girlfriends, I would have been lucky to keep the damn thing from tipping over. Although I can kayak with the best of them. Or maybe the very good of them. 

The same was true regarding simple 10-pound dumbbell routines -- until now. After a difficult first 2/3 of a five-minute routine, I told my wife of my difficulties. She joined me in front of the TV to supervise what she likely thought would be just another instance of me not paying proper attention to what was being taught. 

I rewound the video to the beginning. And as my wife tried to explain what I was supposed to do, I found myself getting more confused, more frustrated, and eventually emotionally upset.

It wasn't just a matter of not having the physical wherewithal to do the routine. I didn't understand what I was watching.

And while I was able to do so the following day, that first go-round shook me enough to take my wife's advice to have a neurologist take look under the hood. While undergoing my usual lab work a few days later, I gave a rundown of the event to the nurse practitioner, who set me up with an appointment with someone in the system she trusted.

Amazing what modern science can do.

Which is how I found myself getting a CT, and a follow up in an MRI two days
later. (If you ever have a hankering to be aurally battered by a giant electronic magnet, book your MRI today!)

The results landed on my app a few hours later. I took a breath and braced myself for worst. Instead, I was confronted with language requiring a UN translator despite being in English.

 "No acute infarct, acute intraparenchymal hemorrhage, or mass effect. Scattered subcortical white matter hyperintensities are nonspecific although favored to reflect sequelae of chronic microvascular ischemic change. No hydrocephalus, midline shift, or herniation. No abnormal extra-axial fluid collection." You don't say. Do tell.

My wife, the retired nurse, did a bit of research regarding my condition. Seventy percent of the population my age had the same thing going on. Pay no attention to that ischemic behind the curtain. Everything else seemed to be cottidianus. (That's Latin for "normal". Two can play at this gobbledygook.)

Not that kind of a clock, wiseass!

All this was confirmed a few days later at the neurologist's office. After acing a series of tests ranging from correctly answering questions like "What state and country we in?", "Starting with 83, keep subtracting 7 from each answer", and "Draw 10 after 10 on a clock", and walking a straight line on my heels, toes, and atop an imaginary tightrope, I was given the prognosis: You don't have an illness. What you've experienced now and then are normal signs of aging. Thanks for playing.

Since then, I've returned to my more normal self, driving my wife batty with wiseguy remarks while earning plaudits for my Cordon Bleu-worthy dinners. Outside of wondering why people choose to have loud conversations outside my building at 3:00 A.M., I haven't experienced any unnerving moments of confusion. I can still do simple subtraction without the need for pencil and paper. And analogue clocks aren't a problem.

Life, then, is good once more. Just don't ask me to row a boat.

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