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Show 139 "Oh my gosh, I think you must have akathesia." I have finally telephoned the hospital to speak with Faith. She is safe for sharing this sort of thing. I have not stopped moving since coming home one week ago: I cannot read more than a few words at a time; I cannot watch TV long enough to catch the plot; I cannot sit still, in my wheelchair or out. Faith is explaining that "akathesia" is the uncontrollable urge to move. "It's got to be a side effect from one of your medications," she is saying, and I am pushing my wheelchair back towards the kitchen. "But you can't just suddenly stop these kinds of meds," she is saying and I am pacing the chair in the other direction. "I'll talk to Dr. Jessop for you and get his opinion and his orders, but I'm pretty sure whatever it is you're taking, it will have to be tapered over time." I do not share with her the accompanying feelings of impending doom. They are too real. Too impossibly connected to something seemingly more spiritual than emotional. Perhaps tapering the medication for the akathesia will rid me of these feelings as well. It all came about on the same day, after all. I had no idea Paul Newman was anywhere near that old. |