Park Avenue Hazing

I am rushing from Dr. Morrison’s office at 18th and 5th Ave to the 6 Subway entrance at 22nd and Park and it’s raining.

Photo I took of Park Ave grate, sliced, re-ordered

The last time I rushed from this location to that location and it was raining I slipped on one of the air vent grates that run up and down Lexington and Park Aves, parallel with the train. I was carrying a bag full of glass detox/vitamin drop bottles and a giant plastic tub of protein powder and I was trying to catch a train. Some dudes in suits were in a similar hurry but coming towards me in the opposite direction and they forced me to veer off the cement part of the sidewalk and onto the metal grate and, well, My Right Foot lost its grip. Fwoop. Straight out in front of my body. The bag I was carrying sailed out of my right hand and into the street. My body slammed down hard on my right ass. My left knuckles hit hard too, wrapped tightly around the handle of my cane. The glass bottles clanked loudly on the asphalt, I thought they shattered, and the tub rolled a half-block down the street. I sat there, embarrassed. The suited gentlemen had passed and were probably laughing or oblivious or whatever. And I still sat there, for at least a minute.

Eventually a nice French couple crossed Park Ave ran up to me and helped me up. They picked up all my stuff (the glass did not break) and brushed some dirt or mud or something off my back. Whew. I thanked them, assured them I was ok, and then continued on to the train.

Anyway, last night I was (smartly) moving more cautiously along Park Ave and was mid-block when I decided to cross the street. It’s normally a safe bet, as safe, if not safer, than crossing at the end of the block. When the traffic stops at the signals it typically leaves busy Park Ave in a surreal state of temporary inertia. Not this time. I got halfway across the street when and a cab turned left and headed straight for me. I stopped mid-cross, protected by a planter (there are thousands of them on Park Ave) and waited. For some reason, instead of flying past me, he stopped. I saw that his light was ON and I assumed he was wondering if a guy hobbling with a cane needed a lift. I didn’t, of course, because I was a half-block from the subway, but he didn’t know that.

I waved him on. ”No thanks” I yelled (as if he could hear me).

He flashed his lights.

I wasn’t quite sure what a light flash meant in this instance.

He just sat there. For what seemed like a minute.

I made the assumption he was telling me to cross in front of him so I did so, as fast as I could. After passing him I turned and waved a hearty thank you. It was a nice thing for him to do, although it would have been much less awkward if he simply drove past and I crossed behind him. Anyway. It’s New York. Youneverknow.

Then, after passing in front of him, he pulled up alongside me and rolled down the window. At this point I assumed he was going to say something nice like “take care of yourself” or “have a good night” or maybe even offer me a free ride, so I stopped, turned back and walked up to the open window.

He leaned over and yelled “stay out of the fucking street!”

He then took off, speeding gleefully away only to slam on his breaks at the red light at the end of the street. Odd. I stood there in the middle of the right lane, transfixed, watched the light turn green and then this cab move forward very slowly, sheepishly. Weird. A manic-depressive cab driver, I guess.

Now, of course, as I stood there traffic from down street barreled towards me with horns blazing and I turned and rushed to the sidewalk. Sheesh.

Only in New York.

A Perfect Storm

I had my big appointment with Dr. Morrison a few days ago. It was amazing. He was the first doctor who found tangible diagnostic problems.

Here’s what I learned.

1. I have a gluten intolerance, probably have my entire life, ignorance of which (i.e. eating wheat) has stressed my immune system. It’s one of the reasons I have such bad allergies (to food, in particular) and in general why I am not as healthy as I should be. This cannot, however, cause my neurological problems.
2. I have toxic levels of mercury and lead in my tissues. This is shocking to me. 5 years of top doctors always suspecting this but never being able to confirm. It was a special test I did. This can definitely cause what’s happening to my leg. I have this, probably, because of the pressure gluten has put on my immune system.
3. He confirmed that I was bit by a tic 5-10 years ago because I have a confirmed non-Lyme non-threatening tic born bacteria (phagocytophila). He could not, however, confirm I have Lyme. He suspects I do. He’s 80% certain. Good enough for me.

Lyme on top of gluten intolerance and heavy metal poisoning is, in his words, a “perfect storm.”

Indeed.

New Blood Culture

There’s a new blood culture in town.

No, it’s not a cable show or a rock band but a new test for Lyme. It’s called a Borrelia Blood Culture and it’s superior to previous Lyme tests because for the first time the virus is grown in a dish.

It was developed in Pennsylvania which is kinda funny because I always thought Pennsylvania was America’s version of Transylvania.

Pennsylvania scientist moments after discovering the new Borrelia Blood Culture Lyme test

I have an appointment with Dr. Morrison, my Lyme Doctor, on Jan 12th and will discuss this with him then. Two weeks ago he took 15 vials of blood, some of which is for old-school Lyme testing. The blood set aside for traditional Lyme tests is sent to three different labs, same blood, same test, to triangulate a positive result (because the false negatives are so prevalent).

So you may be asking yourself why not try the new blood culture? Well, it’s not legal in NY State, not yet. It is, ironically, in Connecticut. Maybe I should find a Doctor in Lyme to test my blood.

That would be so meta.

Holiday De-Tox

Started a 30 day de-tox on December 15th at the request of Dr. Morrison, one of my new Doctors, the Lyme expert. It consists of the following.

Hepatik, for the liver, 10 drops twice a day

Renalin, for the kidney, 10 drops twice a day

Lymphatik, for my lymph nodes, 10 drops twice a day

Cerebretik, for the brain, 5 drops, twice a day

No dairy

No tomatoes

No white potatoes

No peppers (except for black pepper)

I did not ask about alcohol. I told Dr. Morrison that I drink 10-20 glasses of wine a week. He did not bat an eye nor did he say I couldn’t drink during this detox period. So I kept drinking. It was the holidays, after all (perhaps not the best time for a detox?). It turns out when I drink alcohol during this detox I get really sick. Headache. Terrible hangover (even with I drink 2 glasses). Gut cramps in the morning. Ugh.

So, one more thing for my list.

No alcohol.

Gonna be a riotous New Year’s Eve…

T-I-L-E

So I’ve been waking up again at 3 or 3:30 every morning. I find myself having a difficult time breathing. It’s strange. It’s been happening for about a month.

To get back to sleep I repeat my mantra TILE. I imagine the word being presented ROCKY style from right to left. I focus tightly on the letters scrolling slowly across a screen of some kind and I pretend that I don’t know what’s coming next. There’s a T and then there’s an I. Hey, what’s that? Oh it’s an L. Oops I lost concentration, back to the beginning!

I repeat this in my head over and over until I get a clean read. Sometimes it takes me ten times. Once I get it I try to do it twice in a row.

In this case, hopefully, I fall back to sleep.

I don’t remember how I came up with TILE. I’ve used it for twenty years. Weird, right?

So, anyway, more importantly, maybe my lung is recycling, processing toxic waste. This would explain my labored breathing. (I wrote about this previously because in the Spring I sometimes wake up at 3am sneezing and my lung is cleaning itself of pollen.)

This recent development and a possible cyclical symptom set makes me think I need to document more precisely the entirety of my day.

For now, imagine the word TILE rolling across your mind, like this.

Weak Willy Loman

Sometimes my left hand is weak. Sometimes my face. Sometimes my throat.  Sometimes my left leg is weak or my left foot. Sometimes, like an hour ago, I bite my tongue while eating because my tongue is weak and forgets to move out of the way. Sometimes my right butt and hip are weak. And yes sometimes my right foot is weaker than at other times. The interesting thing is that rarely are these weaknesses weak at the same time.

I have tried to note them and track them but there is no discernible pattern. They are not quite cyclical. In some cases they are heightened by activity (carbs make my face weak, exercise? my left hand) but in many cases they are not. It’s a traveling salesman without a map.

I had one NYC practitioner, Grand Master Ken Kobayashi, who I saw for 6 months last year, who said I had a parasite in my liver and that somehow this explained the moving weakness. He wanted to give me some medicine that killed the parasite but one of the primary ingredients was black walnut shell. And I am quite allergic to walnuts. So we settled on something else that was not as strong or as pointed. I don’t see him anymore because he didn’t spend much time with me and he charged A LOT of money for the herbal treatments he gave me (thousands of dollars, seriously). I didn’t get a fair read from the Grand Master and/or he was uninterested in treating me. I did, however, think the parasite in the liver diagnosis was interesting.

I have also had people tell me I have chronic Lyme disease and that moving weakness is a symptom of that. Lyme is a parasite. I wonder.

Western Doctors scoff at the traveling weakness. They say it is in my head. I have not asked them to screen me for parasites.

Either way, parasite or not, there is a traveling weakness no one seems to understand.

Subway v. Metro North

People are much nicer on the gritty urban subway than the semi-pristine gentile metro north.

The past six months I have been commuting from my house in Pelham NY (just outside the Bronx) to my new office at 27th and Park Ave. The journey takes 45 minutes in total, excellent by big city standards.

A picture I took at GCT Sept 11 2003

The process begins by walking down a steep hill and then up another to get to the train station. Then I stand on the Metro North platform, endure at least two express train buzzing past, elbow my way in front of the sliding doors, race to a seat, and then sit. When the train arrives in Grand Central Terminal I walk across the busy station to the 4, 5, 6 Subway. If the train comes into the lower level there’s an additional stairs and ramp I have to navigate. The mouth of the Subway entrance is the hairiest bit. There are two escalators dialed to exit and a steady stream of commuters flowing out. They split and scatter in multiple directions, most all of them straight towards me. I have to move quickly across the floor and navigate to the left and hug the wall. I then have to take the stairs down. It’s not just me but a subset of people who are coming into the Subway system instead of leaving. We all march down the stairs wondering why the escalator doesn’t go both ways. Once at the bottom I have to keep moving forward (or get bumped or knocked over) and at the same time reach into my back pocket and take out my subway pass. While moving I swipe it with a wrist flick (or it won’t let me in) and then hit a entirely new wall of people who are trying to get out. Ha. (You really understand the term “rush hour.”) Then there is another flight of stairs and the wait for a train, in this case the infamous 6. I make my way to the end of the platform and wait there. When the train comes you jam onto the car and find a few inches of metal pole to grab onto. Two stops and I funnel out of the car along with hundreds of others, out a turnstile with teeth, then another with glass and into the bowels of the MetLife Building. Up two flights of stairs with people rushing about and then out onto the street. 27th and Park Ave. Here I wait for the light to turn red and then I jaywalk across Park and into Eddy’s Eats for two hard-boiled eggs. (There’s a metal plate on the ground outside Eddy’s that a bit slippery when wet.) Then up to my office which is right next door.

I repeat the same process only in reverse on the way home.

The first two months I did this commute without a cane. I was bumped, tripped, pushed, cursed, knocked around and actually fell, once. Worse, I had to pay close attention. I had to watch every step that I took. My head was down, looking for sure steps, reading my proximity, sensing pressure or danger. The worst part was navigating near the tracks, hoping I’d stay on the platform and not fall into an oncoming car or electric track. It was quite stressful.

One particular day I was walking slowly up a flight of stairs in the Subway, on my way home. It was 6pm. I got to the last few steps and some guy behind me said “move it god dammit!” I got to the top and as he passed me he said “walking f___ing faster!”

I immediately told him, “dude I’ve got a bad leg.”

Instead of him cursing me out again he surprised me. (He was a bit rough looking.) “Oh shit man, I’m sorry. You ok?”

What? Ha. Always a surprise in New York City.

“Yeah, I’m fine, no problem.”

He smiled, waved and ran off out into the street.

The next morning I began reusing my cane and since then my commute has improved 100%.

I no longer walk with my head down. I no longer worry about falling onto the electric rail. I no longer trip or stumble or miss-hit a stair. But I can’t say I no longer get pushed around, at least on Metro North.

People respect the cane.

On the big badass NYC Subway I get offered a seat at least every other day, even if the train is packed. It’s striking. I also find people very sympathetic on the stairs and in the transition points between the turnstiles and the escalators. People get out of my way. They say they’re sorry or “excuse me.” Heartening.

On the boring serene Metro North New Haven commuter line I get nothing similar. It’s a daily competition. There are a fixed number of seats and people position and push their way to get them. I stand near the door, waiting for it to open, and white dudes in fancy suits and NY Times under their arms measure each other up. Me? I have a cane. Not a worthy competitor. When the doors open they overtly step in front of me to gain an advantage. Their goal? One of coveted far left or far right seats in an empty row of three. It’s ridiculous. All I want to do is sit alone next to my lovely wife and a row of three is the best way to ensure that happens. Nope. I try to go as fast as I can but it just isn’t possible. Damn white dudes in fancy suits.

In a celebrity death match between the NYC Subway and Metro North, the Subway would win!

In Cold Blood

Met with a new acupuncturist in NYC, Jonathan Simon. Interesting cat. He’s super fit and participates in something called “ultra races.”  (I wish I could just run, period, let alone a 50K.) He’s very pragmatic and calm. A great combination. He had read this blog in advance of my first appointment and as I recanted the highlights of my story and he told me his philosophy is to “be better by being better.”

I said ‘I don’t understand.”

He said, “if people think you have a liver and kidney problem and they’ve given you treatment for that I’m gonna assume they’ve given you proper treatment for that and so instead I’m going to come up with a different theory.”

Interesting.

So, when I sat on the edge of the acupuncture table and dangled my feet over the edge he touched My Right Foot.

“That’s really fucking cold.”

Ha.

A precise diagnosis by a licensed medical practitioner.

Sometimes My Right Foot is ice cold. Even on a hot summer day. Particularly after working out. In the winter it can get so cold it hurts. Every night I sit by my couch with a Vornado heater pumping at it.

It’s one thing no one understands.

My circulation is fine. Blood continues to move from My Right Foot, up into my leg and into my liver and kidney and heart and back down again. My foot’s color can be blue or red or totally normal, there is no correlation with temperature. I can feel heat and cold and pin pricks. I still have hair on my toes and the blood still runs red.

The temperature, it’s a medical anomaly.

NEW THEORY.

My Right Foot is cold and it is circulating cold blood through my body and this puts stress on my liver and kidney because they have to warm up the blood and this distraction causes them to underperform converting blood sugar and battling allergies and this underperformance leads to an overall inability to self heal. In short, cold blood in my body.

Every theory thus far has suggested that My Right Foot is caused by something else, something other than My Right Foot. That it is a victim:

• It’s a degenerative neurological problem.
• It’s sciatic blockage.
• It’s a chronic C1 verteba impingement.
• It’s a liver/spleen imbalance.
• It’s Lyme.
• It’s booze.
• It’s my diet.
• It’s my entire right side.
• ALCOA
• It’s all in my head.

So what if instead My Right Foot (and everything else wrong) is caused by My Right Foot?

This downward spiral did in fact begin with several repeated and severe sprains of my right ankle. Everything followed thereafter. So, why can’t that be the cause?

At least it’s a new theory. We all need a theory.

The treatment is heat. The diagnostic test is whether or not my other symptoms (speech, cramps, fasciculations) improve if my foot is warm.

I’ll keep posting my progress.

Oh and this was the first book I ever read on my own (which is weird and slightly disturbing given I was 10 years old):

I Love My Wife

So it’s been 6 months since my last post.  I took an ownership position in AdKeeper in July and we are launching our product next month and I have been heads-down ever since. In the last six months My Right Foot has not really changed.

Before I reset this story and begin blogging again I just wanted to say one thing: I love my wife.

Caroline has been amazing throughout this journey, a journey that began FIVE YEARS AGO.

A mere six months after our wedding I sprained my ankle and this whole thing began. Since then she has been totally supportive of everything. She has encouraged me to see multiple doctors and holistic medical practitioners. She has helped research crazy theories and points-of-view. She has said repeatedly cost is not an issue (most things are to not covered by insurance). When I was (mis)diagnosed with ALS she said “let’s retire and travel the world for two years.”

It’s paramount to have the support of your life partner.

I love my wife.

We are a great team.

Pinky Swear

So I think I’ve been pretty open thus far on this little medical journey (in alphabetical order).

24 hour urine test.
Acupuncture.
Analog Medical Records.
Ankle wrap.
Atkins Bars.
Blood Sugar Tolerance Test.
Burdock Root.
Canes.
Cervical Adjustments.
Cutting back on booze.
EMGs.
High Top Shoes.
Homeopathy.
Leg brace.
Liver Reboots.
Lyme Disease Test.
Magnesium.
Milk Thistle.
Moxa.
MRIs.
Peanuts.
PT.
Reflexology.
Roasted Barley.
ROLFing.
Root Vegetables.
Russian Kettlebells.
Spinal Tap.
Spleen Release.
X-Rays.
Yoga.

But last Friday the 20th of August may have taken the cake thus far.

I had an appointment with the brilliant Olivier Bros. In previous visits, and with nothing but his finger tips, he adjusted (re-set) my liver and my spleen. In each of those cases and amazingly for days after my body went through a metamorphosis. Traveling pain. Sore muscles in my upper seat. Odd smelling skin (liver). Insane amounts of mucus (spleen). All from a simple touch of no more than a minute. Now, arguably, these adjustments have yet to cure me of my problem but I do believe that a cumulative release of mechanical links can ultimately reignite My Right Foot.

Anyway, last Friday Olivier had concluded his 1000 point inventory and instead of readjusting one of my major organs he grabbed the fingernail on my left pinky finger and squeezed it for about ten seconds. That’s it. Like something your grandma would do if you ate too may cookies.

Heart 9. Shao Chong

Since then My Right Foot has been on fire. Pain. Tingling. Hot to the touch (sometimes).

Something is happening.

Pinky swear.