Numbskull 2
I'm numb. Literally numb. This is not a metaphor.
Let’s return to the opening of this narrative for just a second. My topic sentence (as they called it in grade schooI) stated that love and belief and faith have tangible, observable benefits.
When I leave the neurologist’s office, I feel good. The doctor will have just given me a diagnosis I can live with. My disease is simple neuropathy, a chronic condition, meaning I’m not going to die any time soon, and my life expectancy shouldn’t be overly shortened by it (I’ll die three years sooner than I otherwise would, according to the actuarial tables). I believe her. I have a name to give to my condition. My mind calms, and because my mind is calm, my body calms.
My certitude never lasts.
The reason for my distrust is simple: my head is numb. My primary neurologist’s shrugged shoulders and imprecise gestures notwithstanding, head numbness isn’t supposed to be part of neuropathy.
Here’s my problem. If I don’t trust the doctor’s diagnoses, it’s not good for me. The lack of trust results in a measurable decrease in my quality of life. I worry about my health, and that worry affects my body, so my condition worsens. I’ve watched myself get upset about my odd neurological symptoms and, less than a full minute later, my cheeks feel like dull plates of skin, pasted upon my skull. I feel the blood in my feet begin to push, and the nerves begin to sizzle.
If I trust the doctors, if I am able to tell myself that, while disconcerting, these odd sensations in my skin and muscles and nerve endings are only symptoms of normal everyday neuropathy, then I do better. My mind calms, my body calms.
That’s true, and would be true even if what they are telling me was false. If I believe, I feel better.
I’m left with the idea that belief is more important than biology, which reminds me of religion. Faith and belief save the day.
#
I am going through the primary neurologist’s notes right now, in real time, making sure I have the jargon right as I write this, and I just stumbled upon this sentence: “I cannot explain numbness and tingling of mouth and face since the MRI Brain is normal…[and] intracranial pathology is ruled out.”
She cannot explain the numbness in my head.
I turn and tell my wife, “That’s not what she told us the last time. She said it was the nerve impulses in my neck and head getting all tangled up.” I feel myself getting angry. The pads of flesh in my cheeks and my forehead begin to heat up.
My wife says, patiently, “No, that’s not quite what she said. My understanding was that she said she couldn’t explain it, because there is so much going on in that part of the body, it’s impossible to know. She said it might be the mixing of nerve signals. She also said it might be a pinched nerve. They just don’t know.”
I hadn’t remembered the part about the pinched nerve.
And that, dear reader, is why I brought my wife along for the appointment.
#
I trust my wife to tell me the truth.
When I am freaking out, when the burning in my mouth or the deadness of my limbs convinces me I am suffering not from garden-variety neuropathy but from some kind of serious brain injury, she puts her arms around me and says, “Everything will be okay.” My mind calms, my body calms.
I once responded with, “You can’t know that.” And that’s absolutely accurate: she couldn’t know. But despite the clear truth in that statement—there’s no way to know the future with certainty—I only responded that way once. Every other time, I’ve folded easily into her arms, loving her, putting my faith in her as she whispers, “Things will be okay.”
I believe her.
Things will be okay.
My mind calms, my body calms.
Why believe otherwise?
#
Look up “facial numbness” on the internet. I’ll wait.
Scared yet?
If you did the search, I’m sure you saw MS, or Multiple Sclerosis, high on the list of possibilities. Don’t worry, I don’t have it. Other scary diseases I don’t have that that show up on this search: a stroke, a brain tumor, a brain aneurism, Gillian-Barre Syndrome, a cranial fracture, a concussion. The list goes on for some time.
I try not to look up my symptoms on the internet, but it’s hard. The laptop is right here, my medical condition is on my mind already, hey, let me just pull it over and do a quick search.
And I am once again down a rabbit hole.
In addition to the belief component, I’m now trying—with occasional success—to quit searching the internet for information. I’m tired of it. I don’t want to know about any more alternate theories that explain my numbness. The process of trying to hunt down other viable theories is exhausting.
I’m lazy. I want to believe, and leave it at that.
#
Since the internet discovered my searches for neuropathy, I’ve been treated to a large array of online neurology commercials for devices and therapies. They all have a common theme: abject fear.
Someone must have done a study and determined that the best way to sell neuropathy mitigation techniques is the show the potential buyer pictures of feet overlaid with images of pins and red ants and fire and electricity and big red bands of pain circling the feet and ankles.
I’m not exaggerating. I scroll away from these ads as quickly as I see them, because I’m so easily affected by the fear they attempt to harness, but I’m bringing up one now, for you, dear reader. I’ll first do a search for neuropathy cures, to prime the internet to feed me ads. Right away, I’m shown an image of a bare foot covered with red ants. Would that image make you feel uncomfortable?
It gets worse. I’ll pull up Instagram next, which seems to be the worst offender.
I only need to scroll for a few seconds. I’m given an image of a square glass plate, much like a bathroom scale, except that bright foot-shaped lines radiate out from the spots where you are supposed to put your feet. I’m not sure if the device actually emits these lights, or if it’s just an artist’s “scientific” illustration of the effect. It seems unlikely the lights can be that bright in reality.
In the ad, a man walks up to the plate. Bright red arrows wriggle up his legs like venomous snakes. The image is genuinely unsettling, and some primal instinct swims up from my brain pan, insisting I scroll past this nonsense. It’s not bad advice, but I suspend my impulse toward self-preservation and continue to watch. As the man stops and stands in front of the plate, sickly yellow fire begins to lick the soles of his feet.
The flames frighten me even more than the red snaky arrows. If I’d not been primed to be fearful of neuropathy, and what it might do to me, maybe these images wouldn’t have such power. But being a victim of the disease, my reaction is understandable, and easily predictable. They use my fear to sell me their device.
After ramping up my fears, the ad attempts to assuage them. The man (we never see his face, only his pain-wracked legs and feet) steps onto the plate with all the foot-shaped radiating lines. The bright red snakes fade away first, leaving only the eerie yellow fire at the soles of his feet. Then, it too, fades away.
My neuropathy symptoms don’t even involve pain; it’s only numbness. But the idea that one day terrible pain will begin slithering up my legs like serpents has power, and some days—when I’m feeling weak—that fear can worm its way into my brain like the “That sounds like a brain thing” earwig I mentioned earlier. The notion that fiery torment will someday soon spread across the soles of my feet seems believable.
So, yes, I’m open to the idea of a glass plate I can step on that will take away the red ants and the snakes and the horrible spreading fire of disease.
Take my money.
Peace.
To be continued…