With a weary sigh, his resistance gave way. I quickly followed up in my best nonjudgmental tone. After taking an unusual interest in the ceiling tiles, Sam Woodley finally blurted, “Well, doc, I see dawgs.” He ran the back of his hand across his square chin. Sam measured me, his bushy eyebrows knitting up like 2 angry caterpillars about to do battle. His face took on a look of puzzlement that could not have been greater if I had stood on my head and begun to spit marbles. Then I asked, “Have you seen animals or people that were not really there?” I inquired about side effects of his medicine with a series of nonproductive questions. I listened, nodded, sympathized, and discussed making lists. Why, I wondered, did he need to shuffle cards? Surprisingly, he said he also found it harder to shuffle cards. His tremor and shuffling feet embarrassed him. Sam began describing difficulty cutting his food and tying his shoelaces. “How's your Parkinson's been treating you, Sam?” I steered the conversation toward his health. His defiance by then had dissipated, replaced by vulnerability and loneliness. Played cards with my Gladys, before cancer took her.” Before he turned his head away, I noticed his eyes begin to glisten. “Okay, Sam, what do you do with your time?” I began to admire the pluck of this old farmer. “Yep, but ya see a young heifer wantin' to play house with an old fart like me, ya let me know!” A mischievous grin came over his weather-beaten face. Not much to do since leasing out the farm.”Īfter a few sympathetic clucks, I asked, “Live by yourself?” Liked that funny talking Yankee.” I continued my get-acquainted conversation, sensing a thaw in my frigid reception. Without him, suspect I'd move slower'n a constipated slug. “Yep, for years Doc Reynolds was my doctor. He nodded his head and ran a gnarled hand along the exam table, smoothing the paper. The corners of Sam Woodley's mouth turned up slightly. Woodley, I see Doctor Reynolds treated you.” Doctor Reynolds, the founder of the Parkinson's Clinic, had since decamped for a position at Johns Hopkins. While his words were barbed, his west Texas drawl and soft Parkinson's speech reduced their sting. “It's nice to finally see you,” he intoned, not yet abandoning his pique. He wore a sweatshirt that screamed, “If things get better with age, then I'm approaching MAGNIFICENCE.” I sat on the exam stool and acted nonchalant, as if I had ample time to wait out his petulance. The man peered at me like a hawk sizing up its prey. He was short and had a face as fissured as a prune. Like battle plans in war, my considerations would soon become obsolete.Īs I entered, an elderly man sitting on the exam table glared. I scanned prior chart notes, planned my examination, and considered treatment options. Wasn't Muleshoe that cotton town northwest of Lubbock near the infamous Bloated Goat Saloon? I had heard about this boot-scooting, brawl-provoking West Texas watering hole. The intake note read: “75-year-old Muleshoe farmer, eight-year history of PD, med check.”
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