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A test of batteries
Sorry about missing last week. I went under the knife in Toronto on short notice.
As regular readers of this column will know, I have had Parkinson’s for the past 25 years. Seven years ago, I was outfitted in Toronto with a “neurostimulator,” which sends an electrical pusle into the brain to override the misfiring of neurons that is part of Parkinson’s. And it worked: my symptoms were much improved.
There is a drawback. The stimulator—of which I have two, one on the left chest connected to the left brain, controlling the right side of the body; the other in the right chest connected to the right brain, controlling the left side of the body— runs on batteries. The batteries have a shelf life of three to five years. To replace batteries requires surgery, and because neurostimulators are connected to the brain, a neurosurgeon must be involved. Neurosurgeons are busy people.
I have already had two batteries replaced, one in my left chest after three and a half years, and one in my right chest after four years, so I was approaching the next replacement stage based on my history. My doctor had examined my batteries last September and his computer concluded that I should be good for another couple of years.
But at New Year’s, I woke up one morning feeling terrible. I could barely walk from my bedroom to the kitchen. My right leg was dragging and my right arm was less flexible. After waiting a few days to make sure it wasn’t the revenge of overindulgence at work, I held the remote control for the stimulator over each of the batteries in my chest. The right battery—controlling the left side of my body—came back all systems clear; but the left side battery—controlling the right side of my body—could not be detected. It seemed to me that the left side battery had failed. If it had, it meant that my body was getting a mixed message from my brain. That might explain why I felt so rotten.
After a few more days of stewing, I phoned the doctor’s office. I was becoming desperate. My walking had worsened, I already had a scheduled appointment with my doctor for February 7 in Toronto, so my ambition became simply to make it through to that appointment, The nurse I spoke to was very responsive and agreed with my lay diagnosis. She told me she would do what she could to arrange for the neurosurgeon to replace the battery. Indeed, the day before my scheduled appointment, the surgeon’s office called to advise me she would be able to operate on Friday February 9.
I made it—barely, and during a snowstorm, but with my wife Michelle’s help and the charity of some passers-by—into Toronto on February 7. Would the doctor verify my diagnosis? If not, I would have inconvenienced a whole surgical tream, and suffered a significant deterioration for which there was no apparent explanation and no obvious treatment. Fortunately, he came to the same conclusion: the battery was dead and I was cleared for surgery on February 9. And late in that day I was sent home with not just one but two new batteries, one for each side.
Since the surgery, I have quickly reverted to my pre-holiday form, although I am subject to some post-surgical limitations. I can’t shovel snow for another two weeks, darn it.
I recognize that my battery failure is, relative to the sufferings of others, just a minor passage in one minor life in a vast country in a bleak world. But the experience has offered me a fresh opportunity to learn an important word: gratitude. I must be gratetful for all that I do have, rather than be distressed at what I don’t have. Sure, it would have been nicer if my battery had been changed before it went kaput, but I got prompt treatment from caring professionals, and our oft-maligned healthcare system performed smoothly. Sure, I would prefer never to have had Parkinson’s in the first place, but I was lucky enough to have the neurostimulator installed, which has enabled me to live well with the condition. The glass is always half full, not half empty.
My experience in battery failure has also given me the opportunity to experience afresh the compassion of family, friends and neighbours: simple gestures like helping shovel the driveway and dropping over with some food take on a huge significance when you are the recipient. And I can’t forget the kindness of strangers—those passers-by, for example, never sought any recognition, yet they put their personal priorities aside for a few minutes to offer up asisstance related entirely to my needs. Those gifts will stay with me.
Oh yes, they are working on a rechargeable battery, but it will be some time before it hits the market. It has to go through a battery of tests first.
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