Touch your finger to your nose, then straight out towards the finger puppet. Oops, that was pediatric neurology. Feet on the floor, heel – toe, heel – toe. Now we’re going to draw spirals and write “today is a sunny day” while my arm engages in kinematic calisthenics. Then it’s time to strut my stuff. Occasionally, I even get to star in my own movie without a screen test. Julia Roberts, eat your heart out. Meanwhile, I daydream about shopping with my neurologist at Bloomingdale’s, where she lectures the evil saleslady on how that stunner of a cocktail dress will most definitely not be paired with heels but looks spectacular with my Aerosoles!
Once this mini workout session is concluded, we gab about the state of my movement affairs and the tease of a better tomorrow. Perhaps there’s a fresh-faced research study involving animal models (no, not Miss Piggy prancing down a runway in Versace). While the promise of medical science is encouraging, my tastes run to available and personally impactful therapeutics. Our version of walking on the wild side is to fiddle with my meds by s-l-o-w-l-y changing the dosage in excruciatingly small increments, a regimen that doesn’t sit well with my ever-burgeoning impatience. Really, is one tiny pill developed specifically for Dystonia too much to ask?