My struggles not to ram the car in front of me often interrupted the endless bumper-to-bumper work commute. Writhing in pain, I arched up, rising clear off my seat to stretch my torso so an abdominal cramp would ease. Other times I resembled an opera star exercising my neck, mouth and facial muscles before a performance. My chin rose so high I had difficulty seeing the road when I stretched throat muscles conspiring to choke me. These must have been peculiar sights to the drivers traveling alongside my car. I can imagine what they were thinking as our eyes locked during the snail-paced drive. If it happened now in the era of ubiquitous cell phones, someone would call the police and report a DWI.
My odd mixture of symptoms pushed me to my family doctor.
“What brings you today,” he questioned.
“I have been getting these weird kind of cramps, Doctor.”
He probed deeper, “In one muscle or an area?”
“Well, I get them everywhere.” I told him. I went on with the specifics.
He wanted to know, “Has anything changed in your diet? Do you do anything new, like working out?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I detailed my weekend warrior lifestyle of chopping wood, mixing cement, digging holes, shingling roofs and a myriad of other jobs over-ambitious homeowners tackle. He listened, put a stethoscope to my lungs, palpated my abdomen and drew blood. He tested my heart.
“Things look okay,” he announced. “Let’s get your lab work back and we’ll go from there. See me in two weeks.”
It turned out my EKG was good as was the other lab work. I had a slight elevation of sugar level. However, the weight scale told another tale. I had become middle-aged plump. The doctor reminded me I turned forty, was out of shape and held a sedentary job.
“How do you expect your body to respond to the abuse you inflict on it,” he asked. “You have to take better care of yourself.” He sent me home with orders to clean up my lifestyle: lose weight, exercise with more regularity, eat a healthier diet and get proper rest. To ease my transition to this healthier and with hope, cramp-free lifestyle he suggested, “Drink tonic water. It has quinine in it. Quinine will help the cramping.”
Like most, I had partial success with my lifestyle changes. Regardless of my efforts, the cramping continued. Seeking relief from the agonizing muscle spasms, I graduated from tonic water to over the counter quinine pills. There were no improvements and my gyrations became fodder for fun at family gatherings. Little did anyone suspect the disaster occurring just inches under my skin. The twitching was symptomatic of an impending nerve Armageddon. Unbeknownst to me, my nerves were fighting a losing battle, overwhelmed by a mysterious force. The twitches were their last ditch efforts to survive.
Several years later the tipping point came, pun intended. I began falling. Once it was over my son’s bicycle that I tried to step over. Another was during a lumberjack impersonation as I chain-sawed some trees on my property. As I tumbled off the log I was standing on, the buzzing blade brushed the leg of my jeans, shredding it. It nearly took my leg off. My symptoms were getting worse.
When I pointed out to my wife how my muscles twitched once, we stared in amazement. My skin dimpled and danced.
“It looks like leprechauns jumping on it, “she exclaimed.
It was a bizarre sight. Although not painful, it was difficult to watch the waves of chaotic movement ripple across my body parts. It was apparent, things were not normal, but I thought still benign.
Upon a return visit to my GP, he recommended a neurologist. When I went for that visit, he took a medical history. “I understand from your family doctor you are having fasciculations?” I nodded in agreement. “Let’s take a look at you.” With that, he raised his stethoscope.
He performed a physical exam. The twitching began, almost on demand. “Do you mind if I call my partner in to see this?” he said in a surprised tone.
He stepped out of the room. Rather than be alarmed, I was relieved my symptoms were of sufficient interest to warrant another view. They looked, pointed, nodded and hmmmmed.
Growing concerned at their reactions, I interrupted the viewing by asking, “Doctor, what was causing them?”
His voice replied with assurance, “There are many possibilities, in all likelihood something benign. Most of them are.” He scheduled a follow up visit to do an electromyogram or EMG.
I arrived at the office not knowing much about the test I was about to take. I was unfamiliar with the procedures. I assumed it was like an EKG. God was I wrong. He explained the test measures electrical impulses within the nerve.
“With it, I see the health of the nerve. First we’ll take some measurements.”
He stretched a tape measure down my forearm and made marks as guides. He looked like a tailor measuring my arm for a suit. At the end of his marks, he taped electrodes to register an electrical impulse. Next, he brought out the machine. It looked like a Hollywood prop from a Frankenstein movie: A gadget to reenergize the dead.
I opened my eyes wider when he took out needles that reminded me of what an acupuncturist may use. They were several inches long. He connected them to the machine with thin wires.
He stated. “I need to insert these into your muscle fibers.” Then, his Franken-machine would generate voltage to course down the nerve.
“Oh, I see,” was all I could muster as I sat with no protest, submitting to the procedure. The tingling, pulsing surge of electricity shot down my arm multiple times. It felt unusual, uncomfortable but not quite painful. It was more surprising than anything else was. I wondered how it would feel to be electrocuted, every muscle at one time? He did a few different muscles.
The test did not rattle me until he looked me in the eyes and instructed, “Stick out your tongue.”
With nonchalance, he grasped the tip of my tongue, pulled it out until it hurt. Holding it snug in tweezers, he skewered the center and back with several probes. Once he had them all in, he gave me the ridiculous order.
“Now relax,” he told me.
I smile now imagining all of the stuff dangling from my quivering tongue. Relax? I did my best to comply with his instructions to relax and keep my tongue still.
The test ended, thank goodness. He drew blood and prescribed an array of exotic tests done searching for immune disorders or another explanation. After the visit, I found myself wandering in the public library reference room thumbing through medical books to find out what he was looking for with the tests. The ailments I uncovered went from stark to grim. As I identified one after another. I realized I could be a very sick man.
Several weeks went by as I waited. I called a couple of times to monitor the status of the tests. I grew more concerned with each passing day. Columbus Day fell on October 13 and schools were off making a long weekend. Every other teacher was delighted. There was no joy in my home as I grew anxious awaiting some news. By afternoon, the cloudy autumn day turned cold and rainy.
The anticipated call came that day in the early evening. I bantered with the doctor as I summoned up my courage. I started, “So doctor, have any of my tests come back?”
“Yes, all of the tests came back negative.” For the moment, I was relieved. I pressed him for an explanation for my symptoms.
After a few evasive exchanges for my questions, he concluded, “You should come back in a couple of months and we can check you again,”
“Why is that?” I wanted to know what he was looking for and what would change in a couple of months. I continued seeking something specific.
“Well, your EMG shows some nerve degeneration,” he replied in a general, open way