The day started with the fear that I was having a stroke, and ended happily, if you call it that, with the diagnosis that it was something I had never heard of called “Bell’s palsy.”

I have two reasons to be open and honest about my life.

One, it stands out in a digital culture that specializes in making people look better than they are, and secondly, it forces me to be candid about things I always used to hide – my mental and physical health, for one.

It’s still one of the hardest things for me to write about, so I know I have to do it.

My wild day began on Monday in my dentist’s office for my regular pre-scheduled cleaning. Ingrid, the receptionists looked strangely at me when I came up to say hello, but I didn’t think a thing of it.

I gave up looking in a mirror years ago.

The aide who cleans teeth looked at me and asked me if I was OK. She said my face looks different. She was alarmed.

She added that I had slurred some words, something Maria had mentioned. It was odd, but Maria insisted she drive me to the dentist, something she has never done. She just said she wanted to do some sketches and clear her head after a busy morning.

But she seemed uncharacteristically worried about me driving alone.

I said my eye had been dry and sometimes drippy, and one side of my mouth felt suddenly smaller than the other. My tooth was suddenly biting down on another tooth. I thought that part of the mouth was swollen.

The aide, – working with here is a pleasure – she said. She was uncomfortable working on the teeth, which surprised me, and she went to get Dr. Merryman, my very wonderful dentist.

He came in and said my face didn’t look right, and one side was different than the other. “I think you need to get to a hospital right away,” he said, “you may be having a stroke.” I laughed, “It sounds like you’re kicking me out,” I said, “I feel fine.”

But I wasn’t fine, it was just dawning on me.

“I am kicking you out,” he said, “and urging  you to get to a hospital immediately.” Ingrid had already called Maria and asked her to come back from her walk, because they thought I needed to get to the hospital.

Maria came, and we got into the car and headed for Saratoga Hospital. When I mentioned stroke, nurses came out of the walls in seconds and got me sitting down and answering question after question.

Raising hands and arms, counting numbers, waving my arms, lifting my legs.

After a few minutes, the doctor said, “It’s not a stroke,” and walked away, saying, “I think you got Bell’s Palsy.”

Bell’s palsy is a temporary paralysis of the facial nerve, causing muscular weakness and some pain on one side of the face. Bell’s palsy is not a mini-stroke. It’s a virus.)

The doctors said they had given me test after test – of every part of the head and upper body – to make sure it wasn’t a stroke.

I was kept in the hospital for the rest of the day and the night until midnight, with Maria by my side. I had CT scans, blood work, heart tests, a movement rest, eye tests, and other tests. We were exhausted.

I don’t need to be pushed to love her, but I sure appreciated her on Monday; she was with me every second of the day, even though we were both exhausted.

Every person I saw said it was obvious that I did not have a stroke.

Every test of every part of my body reaffirmed that I did not have a stroke. But the doctors explained they had to be careful with strokes, especially with diabetics who also had heart disease.

I get that.

One tele doctor thousands of miles away – he had all of the arrogance and beligerance of many surgeons – said he looked at my test results and said I needed to stay two more days, it was possible, he said, because I had minor strokes earlier.

I refused any more tests – we butted heads – and said this was my decision, not his, and have a doctor I trust and listen, and if he suggested further tests, I’ll comply. Maria agreed with me. I said if my primary doctor wanted me to be tested, I would give it real thought.

I have a problem with doctors who tell me the medical decisions are mine, and then demand I do what they say. I don’t do well with snarky people, especially those diagnosing on a screen thousands of miles away without ever seeing me.

Anyway, it was a grueling and anxious day. I will have to curtail some of my writing for a while, but there is no reason at all to stop. I will continue my Pantry support posts and my flower art photos every day, unless my eye acts up and needs moisturizing and rest, which can happen for a while.

This is the challenge and fascination of aging for me; these questions of pills and tests make me more uncomfortable than I ever get. The medical machine is like a dinosaur; there is no simple way to deal with all of it the way many doctors wish, but I will do it the way I wish.

One step at a time, carefully each time, and then thoughtfully twice more.

It’s important at my age to take good care of myself; it’s also important to consider my own dignity, the demands on Maria, and my own sense of my body, which I know better than any physical I have met.

I understand I will have to make some changes; the technical medicines are never perfect. To me, it takes doctors and patients farther and farther away from one another all the time. Machines do the decision-making.

Any instinct will have to come from me.

Good medicine for me is not doing what I am told, but what a doctor and I figure out comfortably, respectfully, and honestly.

I asked Maria to take a photo of me this morning so you can all get a look at what it means, at least for a while.

It felt like the longest day. All around me, I saw people who had it much worse, and I gave thanks for my life.

Then, time to move along, massage my jaw, and get on with my life. It could be a lot worse, and it is pretty great as it is.

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Maria thinks, for some reason, I am handsome. I’ll have to take her word for it. This is my temporary new face. In almost all cases, it just gradually goes away. I can stand it if she can.

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