Back from the undead

It happened again just last Friday. We were at an opening for a show of collaborative drawings and paintings by my friends Joe and Catherine Senungetuk. I hadn't seen either in quite a long time. Catherine noticed a difference "You look so much better!" She exclaimed. It was not the first time I'd heard this since the operation, but I especially took this instance to heart. Catherine is trained as both a nurse and an artist. When she says I look better, chances are I do.

She struggled to put her finger on what the actual improvement was. Everything from my color to my affect came up. Attempting to sum things up, I offered the description "More... lifelike?"

Catherine guffawed, and we moved on to other topics.

But there have been many similar observations. My dental hygienist was delighted with the new me, "You actually smiled!" She reported as I settled into the chair. And my neurologist offered the supreme compliment "I haven't seen you looking this good in years." All of which is music to my ears of course, except for one disturbing implication.

After a while the repetition of these words of encouragement from so many different people brought me to an inevitable conclusion: I must have looked like crap before the operation.

Curious and apprehensive I put the question to my family. Wiley was quick to offer helpful info. "You looked like this, Dad" he said, curling his shoulders forward in a slump. His arms hung limp and still in front of his trunk. "Like a zombie" he added.

We had a brief argument about exactly what a zombie looks like, but there was no escaping the larger point. It can't be good to look like anbody's idea of a zombie.

Sad truth, as a Parkinsonian, you're not even going to be a good zombie.

CUT TO: Townspeople barricaded in home. Our hero, John Strong parts a drawn curtain and squints through

Strong: "They... they are coming."

Joey, 13-year-old neighbor: "What do we do? what do we do???"

Strong: "Well, the ones that aren't frozen in place are shuffling incredibly slowly and falling down. Let's heat up some dinner, then catch a nap, and then think about fleeing."

I can hear the test-audiences nodding off and snoring as I write. So I'm glad to be a former zombie. But to all of you who stood quietly by me while I went through my b-movie monster phase, thanks for putting up with me, and believe this: You'll always look great to me.

In case you think you've seen everything....

...you haven't. Unless you've watched this video of a man playing his banjo during his Deep Brain Stimulation surgery. Sadly, he was not cured of his banjo habit. There was also a tense moment when a nurse and the anesthesiologist absentmindedly began clog dancing while the surgeon chanted

"Swing your partner, Doe-si-doe! To the brain's deep part we go! It's not far, no country mile, drill that burr-hole mountain style!"

Disaster was averted when they found the patient could not perform a Buck-and Wing, and everyone was brought back to their senses.

I looked into this extensively, and can reassure everyone that playing the banjo has not been added to the battery of tests that a surgical candidate must perform to qualify for DBS. In fact, most teams prefer something soothing, and would appreciate it if patients could render a little light jazz on the pan pipes. Also on the approved list: Bassoons, dulcimers, Irish harps and ocarinas. Needless to say Theramins are forbidden in most operating rooms.

Must run. I need to work on my rendition of "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" arranged for pan pipes.