Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On

by Pa Rock
Recuperator

I have had a troublesome physical condition for twenty years or so that, while not harmful, is generally annoying.  My hands shake and tremble, particularly when I am anxious or under stress.  Several doctors have told me that it isn't Parkinson's - just a general tremor condition that affects some people for no particular reason.

The condition started becoming worse over the past couple of years, to the point that I would have to ask friends to assist me with fine motor things like addressing envelopes or handling glassware.   Last fall I was at a nice luncheon and managed to flip a tray full of food out of my hands and onto the carpet.

Grace under pressure.

I asked my doctor to refer me to a specialist in the hopes of finding some way to keep the condition under control.   He sent me to a neurologist who, although he was served by one of the worst run medical offices in the Phoenix metro area, did come up with pharmacological answer that completely did away with my symptoms.

It was magic.  Problem solved.

But then I had my heart surgery and came home with a bunch of new drugs - one of which was known to interact badly with my miracle-cure tremble drug.  The cardiologist told me that I would have to abandon the pill that did such a wonderful job of calming my shakes.

And guess what?  The shakes came back - with a vengeance!

This afternoon I had to visit one of the most stressful places in any community - the Department of Motor Vehicles.  My driver's license had expired while I was in the hospital, and I had to go in, take an eye test, fill out a form, pose for a picture, pay some money, and regain my legality.  The hardest part for me was, of course, filling out the form.  I took it to a tall table in the middle of a room swarming with people speaking eighteen or so different languages, most of them loudly.  I was shaking so badly that my main concern wasn't filling out the form - it was just trying to not knock the table over.

After about five minutes of printing one painful letter at a time, a good Samaritan stepped forward, took my pen, and began filling out the form for me.  The man, who appeared to be in his forties or fifties, told me that his father had a similar condition.  He asked me each question on the form and then carefully printed my answers.

I never even got the fellow's name - but I won't forget him.  That small act of kindness will stay with me and will hopefully be paid forward again and again.

Thanks, buddy.  You made my day!