Our family physician and I played golf together.  I could see the worry in his eyes when Melody and I entered the exam room.  He put me through a battery of tests and concluded that whatever it was I had he couldn't say for sure.  So he referred me to a neurologist friend of his who could see me that day.

I had spent years in denial about the symptoms I had been experiencing.  Today we were going to get to the bottom of the problem, I hoped.

A visit to the neurologist's office was not something we looked forward to.  I found neurologist in the dictionary.  It said: "One specializing in neurology; especially: a physician skilled in the diagnosis and treatment of disease of the nervous system."  Pretty scary.

After a cursory "going over," the new doctor concluded; he needed to see an MRI of my brain and upper and lower spine before he could make a diagnosis.  I noticed he wasn't smiling at my usual off-the-cuff one liners and jokes.  This was serious business.  I implored him to give me something positive to take with me after this first office visit.  I needed something to allay my fear.  He gave me nothing, other than saying, "I will not make a diagnosis without the MRI."  It made me wonder. How many people go to neurologists and get "good news?"  I told the doctor I was claustrophobic and MRIs bothered me.  He said, "That's okay. They can put you to sleep and do the test.  I'll call you when I set the scan up," He rose from his desk as if dismissing us from his office.  What had I gotten myself into?  Maybe I was going to follow in my father's footsteps to an early grave.