The Fart Heard Round The Office

When we walked into suite 5418 in the neurology wing, dad and I both sorta knew what we were about to hear, but had no idea it would be this. Dad’s incessant hand shaking and staggered gait, his head seemingly two steps ahead of his feet were early signs. Even that morning it seemed odd that he dropped one of those blueberry Dannon yogurts right out of his hands.  The long hallway into the office was poorly lit, lights flickering like we were in a scene from a Hitchcock film.  The doctor sat us down after a half hour of tests, pulled up his scooter seat and said “So you have later stage post-traumatic advanced Park_.”  Then abruptly like a closet door slamming shut at midnight, dad farted…It started as a boom, then sort of sputtered like my pipes do when the heat is trying to turn on. It was a kind of slow roller if you will, rippling then seeming to gain momentum with a long hiss into a high pitch crescendo, followed by a single spit, rivaling Beethoven’s 5th. Conductor John Williams would have been proud. All in, the toot lasted maybe 6 seconds, which is of course miniscule for those Olympic downhill skiers, but in a doctor’s office waiting for a diagnosis that may change your life, it was an eternity. The doctor sort of awkwardly kept talking through it, dad meanwhile was still a bit frozen from the experience itself and so I’m 88% sure he didn’t even hear it, and may not have felt it either. When it was done, I tried to go back to the punchline: “Um, doc, so I sorta missed what you said … post-traumatic advanced parkin…what? A car, a bus?” I knew what it was, just didn’t want to say it. It’s funny, as stressful and debilitating and confusing as this parkinson’s thing is, it’s also a bit freeing to hear the words said aloud since it’s been 8 some years since the fall down those stairs that probably gave it life—freeing so much so that dad let it rip at the defining moment. But I suppose I’m glad he did. We definitely need a bit of levity when it feels like everything is on fire, burning and breaking down.  Wouldn’t it be great if we could inject more humor at the beginning and middle of disease to cut down on the blow at the end. Wouldn’t shock me if U.S healthcare investors try to monetize this, rounding up stand-up comics to make patients with terminal and chronic disease laugh, billable at $200 a visit or maybe $15 per belly laugh. Either way, apparently we’d benefit from a little gas too. Of course, ironically -- in this situation -- gas actually helped temper the fire.