described what had happened, WHAT WAS HAPPENING to me, and he was confused as well. We agreed that I would stop at the hospital on my way home to have some blood tests drawn and he would meet me in his office first thing in the morning. The next morning I felt fine except for that mild aching in the muscles of my legs, which, though apparently functional for mundane purposes, would simply show no response whatsoever to any rapid, athletic movement. The neurologist poked, prodded, relfexed, questioned, and stressed every part of my body. The blood tests were pefectly normal but I apparently was experiencing unexplained weakness of the fast-twitch muscle fibers of both legs. He had no diagnosis and we both knew better than to idly speculate what the differential diagnoses might be, out loud that is. Over the next two weeks he ordered more tests, then more tests including nerve conduction studies, then a muscle biopsy where they actually take a piece of muscle from the leg to examine it microscopicly, then electron microscopicaly, then on to experts on muscle diseases across the country. The pathologist, also a friend, gave me the news which translated out as "muscle degeneration due to unexplained loss of nerve connections". He could tell me 103 conditions it did not appear to be, which, I carefully noted in silence, did not include two or three conditions that would leave me compltely paralyzed and/or insane or dead within a variable time period. Being a doctor at a time like that is its own punishment. There was, of course, without a diagnosis, no treatment and even with a diagnosis probably would not be. I tried as best I could to continue living a normal life. There seemed little alternative to that either. I went to work every day, with progressive difficulty as the muscular degeneration progressed. Walking reminded me of wading through mud, getting deeper and deeper day by day. My mind seemed clear, except for this paranoid, alien thought that I was dying or going insane. I even tried to maintain some empathy for the many patients I saw each day with really minor problems, as I with hidden difficulty pushed myself out of the chair with my arms because my legs would not do it any more. I began to look at wheelchairs with new interest, noted the electric models, designer colors, and all the custom features. The Deschutes, I remembered, has a handicapped ramp fishing site below Maupin. The certifiable handicapped could even get permission to fish the Deschutes from a boat. It didn't help much. I would at times catch myself hyperventilating with anxiety at my thoughts. Friends and work colleagues, hearing rumors which unbelievably were in fact the total sum of knowledge, hovered with vague concern and uncertainty. X-wife#1 asked me once whether it was
								More Text =>
		<= Back
			Table of Contents			Fishtales Start		Order/Contact