Movement Disorders

The clinic moved to their new location in the Morsani Building, with the valet behind a podium, shiny cars idling in front of the sliding glass doors; I thought I stepped into a hotel, until I see a youngish woman being buffeted by a gust of wind, her gait strange and uncoordinated while a man holds her wheelchair behind her. The woman with the close-cropped grey hair, normally behind the front desk escorts me to the elevator.

On the third floor, the patient waiting area is a mass of sitting areas, open wall window and artwork on the opposing side. Photographs the length of the space are waves in black and white, memorable undulations. Examination rooms have the same fluorescent lighting as the rooms they moved away from, but the hallways accommodate a group, not just two slender people. Rooms are ample, most are empty.

Our room is full of people waiting for the doctor who arrives with his own small retinue- the nurse, medical student, and writer. In his hands, the patient has a green camouflage - colored baseball cap. The doctor asks him if he's a hunter.

No, I was a welder. The doctor shakes his head, nodding in affirmation, beginning to explain his position on manganese toxicity and development of a Parkinson- like syndrome. The patient wears a thermal undershirt underneath a long- sleeved dark green shirt. His black shoes have Velcro tabs, diabetes shoes. He sits on the examination table, his head the highest in the room, his face motionless mostly, though a small tilt of the head and smirk pass in reaction to what the doctor asks him, but does not give him a pause to answer. Eight breathing bodies make the room ten degrees warmer. I take off the woolen jacket.

The adult children occupy the seats along the far wall, the daughter following every word, nodding and interjecting questions and comments. Her blond hair is styled away from her face, every expression moves across her facial features. She wears a skirt of red and white checks, her shoes red and white polka dots. A tattoo on her right foot is colorful and floral; the small homemade star tattoo on the left hand of the patient is greenish- blue with faded age. The youngest son, with the straightest nose and cropped light hair drove up from Ft. Lauderdale, three or four hours on the highway. He asks several questions moving his long- fingered hands in front of his chest, nervously.

The patient says so few words, the doctor so many. I seem the only one bothered. The daughter assumes the caregiver role, taking the prescriptions, noting the gradual increase in levodopa dosage, depicted in a chart the physician has sketched.
When does he come back? Someone asks.
Six months. Let's see how he does on the new dosage. In six months, we can correct it if we need too.
The daughter explains to her father he'll return here, not to the previous doctor in Lakeland.
He'll be mad if I don't come back, the patient comments. The daughter pats him on the leg, assures him his old doctor will probably not notice.