To say that my hand tremors were put on the back burner in 2020 is an understatement.
We tried to navigate the long, arid desert of the Covid Pandemic to the best of our abilities. Feasting on homemade bread, hugging our dogs a bit closer, reading copious amounts of fiction, and driving around neighborhoods, capturing families with a telephoto lens, we were living one day at a time, hoping that quarantines and statistics from the Arkansas Department of Health would soon be a sight only for the rear view mirror.
Additionally, a move to Conway proved to be inevitable, as Kurt was growing weary of the commute to his new job with the city. So, in the heat of the summer, we began the process of downsizing thirty two years of life together.
It was tough, and the physical and emotional stress took its toll. My shoulder was constantly hurting, my arm was jello, and balance, or a lack thereof, became an issue. I seemed to stumble quite often, and actually fell a couple of times.
So, once again, as the atypical 2020 drew to a close, I was filled with new resolve to solve my medical mystery. It took awhile, starting with a new nurse practitioner, then leading to a new physical therapist, an orthopedic surgeon, three MRI’s (I could write a blog about this trauma, but I won’t.), and finally, after a six month wait, a neurologist.
I’m not sure I fully embraced or appreciated the answer I received.