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Show 63 abdomen. The Baclofen is supposed to trickle from the pump, down through a tiny tube they call a catheter, into ("generally and not technically speaking," I am told) the spinal fluid, there to supposedly quiet this spasticity. The spasticity is so extensive that since having this pump installed, five months ago, the catheter has broken three times. To replace it requires surgery. And surgery requires my being in a hospital. "It's been since medical school that I've really seen MS," she said, "but it's nothing like this." The neurologists in my town would argue with her. But she is as stubborn as I and somehow gets me a ticket toJhe_urnyersitv hospital up north and a front row seat before one of the nation's best and very published MS experts. A group of long white coats whirls from the whooshing side of the curtain to mine and quickly gathers around my bed. The man wearing the longest white coat is obviously in charge - he is also the oldest. This must be the MS specialist. Those younger posture themselves so as to listen to him with respect. They barely acknowledge my presence, though they are acutely aware of pieces of me. At his command, one examines my eyes, another hits several reflexes here and there. The elderly doctor picks up my right leg, raises it 18 inches off the bed up into the air, then suddenly lets go. The leg does not fall. It remains in the air, clenched beyond my voluntary ability. Then the muscles release and it flumps harmlessly onto the bed. |