3. Mouse to the left, Jokers to the right… Here I am.

I lost my job as Director of Publications at the school where I had worked since my marriage ended three years before. I was told that the news magazine and fundraising collateral which had been my responsibility would no longer be produced in house. My writing, editing, and proofreading skills would no longer be needed, they said. “Goodbye. And good luck,” they said – and meant it.

As luck would have it, an interview for temp work through a staffing agency landed me a job at the very agency where I had applied. I administered evaluations and conducted interviews. I was advanced to a recruiting position, and then account management. A year or so went by and I was transferred to a small branch office where I was the sole employee, with a focus on resume status career placement. I began to notice that the harder I worked, the less I seemed to accomplish. Apparently my boss noticed as well, and I was transferred back to the larger branch.

I will never forget the day that the district manager came to my desk and, standing over me, observed the fact that, though both of my hands were poised over my keyboard, the right hand seemed to do very little typing. She had me get up and then she sat at my computer to offer a comparison of our typing skills. Both of us are right-handed. When she reached for the mouse and found that I had positioned it to the left of my keyboard, this was a “big deal” to her. (Never mind that it worked just fine for me.)

That afternoon I was called into her office. She stated quite simply, “From an HR perspective, I need to know the exact extent of your disability.”

Wow! I was blown away by her words. The thought of having a DISABILITY had never – ever – crossed my mind!

A doctor’s letter was required. He wrote “crushed ulnar nerve,” and I gave the letter to my boss, for my file.  

I wrote a letter of resignation and told her she could file that, too.

2. Never quite the same again

At work the next day, I encountered a woman who is a physical therapist. Taking a look at my hand and the condition she referred to as “drop wrist,” she encouraged me to go immediately to buy a wrist brace, lest I incur further damage to certain ligaments in my arm.

My doctor’s office had accepted my request for an appointment, offset by several days. Sensing my friends’ and co-workers’ concern about my useless hand, I called and stressed that my need for an office visit was more urgent than I had let on, and they agreed to work me in that day.

This doctor, my primary care physician, was the first to put me through the paces that I have since come recognize as observational exams for neurological disorders. I tapped my fingers to my thumb. I walked down his office corridor and back. He checked my reflexes. I stretched both arms open and then touched my nose.

Physical Therapy was prescribed, and, for weeks, I went for the therapy and did the recommended exercises. I regained some use of my hand, and the wrist was no longer dropped, but the therapy was ongoing.

One day, the physical therapist working with me had, in the course of my treatment, manipulated my head to the point that I heard a “snap” in my neck. “Ow!” I yelped. “Did you hear that?” And he said, “Yes. It was supposed to pop.” Then he added, a little less audibly, “But it wasn’t supposed to hurt.”

In the days and weeks (and for a few years) that followed, I wore the brace on my wrist and I was never quite the same again. The doctor had concluded that I had “a crushed ulnar nerve” – the result of having fallen asleep on the arm. I remember now, that, at each check-up, he repeated the tests, and then repeated his diagnosis. Looking back, I also remember hearing “too young for Parkinson’s” – which, of course, I was – so the words barely registered with me at the time and did not concern me in the least.

As time passed, my hand improved enough for me to function, but everything I did required extra effort and took inordinate amounts of time. My neck continued to hurt whenever I turned my head.

I tried acupuncture which offered some relief (but kind of creeped me out). I visited a chiropractor who informed me that the physical therapist’s manipulation of my head had been an ILLEGAL procedure. He suggested tests (MRI / C scan) that my insurance wouldn’t cover under chiropractic care, and my MD refused to order. “It’s just a crushed nerve, Shannon,” he repeated. “It’s not going to get better. But it isn’t going to get worse, either.”

Well…at least he was right about the first part.

1. It all started with…

As nearly as I can surmise, it all started with a simple catnap.

I was sitting at my desk, waiting for a phone call. It was late in the evening and, as I waited, I sat “indian style” in the desk chair, reading a book that lay open across my lap. My right elbow was poised on the chair’s armrest and I was resting my head on my right hand.

The ringing phone woke me. I stretched my right arm to snag it from the desktop, and knew immediately that something wasn’t “right.” My right hand hung limp and lifeless from my wrist.

I managed to answer the phone before the caller gave up. Holding it in my left hand, I tried moving the wrist and fingers of the palsied right hand. Nothing. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t tingle. “My hand’s asleep,” I said into the phone. And I waited for it to wake up.

I hadn’t been asleep for long and the little nap was unplanned. My head seemed clear enough but my hand just sort of hung there. This was weird. I wondered: had I had a stroke instead of a nap?

I was 45 years old. And this was beginning to scare me.

I ended my phone call and placed another: paging my surgeon-ex-husband’s beeper with my number and adding *911 to indicate that there was a serious need for him to respond. Even so, I was surprised that he did, rather promptly, and that, just minutes later, he was at my side, checking my blood pressure and pulse, listening through his stethoscope as I took deep breaths – and my heart beat at its normal pace.

He assured me that I had not had a stroke – for which I might have hugged him – but  then – and I swear this is true – he said, “Take two aspirin and give me a call in the morning.”

For that, if I had had two good hands I might have choked him.