After a ten-month wait, I finally had my first Connecticut-based Neurology appointment.

Ten months.

Which is just long enough to forget why you made the appointment in the first place, briefly convince yourself you’re probably fine, and then panic the night before because you remember exactly why you made it.

By the time the day arrived, I felt prepared.

Emotionally;
logistically;
spiritually.

I had questions.
I had records.
I had survived the waiting period – which, in modern medicine, is apparently considered a diagnostic test.

That’s when I sat down in a Neurologist’s waiting room and was handed a clipboard thick enough to qualify as light cardio.

You know the drill.

Questions about pesticides, genetics, and whether I’ve ever shared prolonged emotional space, or meaningful eye contact, with a cow.

Across from me, a guy was filling out his form like he was applying to NASA. Very focused. Very serious. Possibly using a backup pen.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to remember whether I had chickenpox in 1971 or 1972, and whether that matters if it was also the same year as my polio vaccine.

A woman leaned over, gave me that “I’ve been here before” smile, and whispered:

“First time? Don’t worry. By the time you leave, you’ll know more about everyone else’s symptoms than your own.”

She was not wrong.

By minute twelve, I’d heard about a chin tremor, a rogue toe cramp, and one man’s firm belief that his smartwatch was definitely spying on him.

And then; I heard it.

A sound my brain had not registered since the Clinton administration.

A fax machine.

I froze.

A fax machine?
In 2024?

For a moment, I was sure I’d fallen through a wormhole back to the 1990s, where my medical records were probably filed between a Blockbuster card and an AOL trial CD.

I briefly wondered if I should’ve brought my Atari controller.
Maybe we’d play Pong while we waited.

A guy across the room caught my eye and nodded like,
“Yep. Welcome to modern medicine. Sometimes there’s unintentional time travel.”

Then they called my name.

I handed everything to the nurse: CT scan, MRI, and a very thorough 90-minute exam from a highly competent third-year ER resident.

All neatly labeled.
Organized.
Mission-ready.

This was my Mission to Mars preflight packet.

I told my wife, Anita, that we’d better settle in for a long wait while the movement specialist carefully reviewed my impressive stack of paperwork.

Wrong.

Less than eight minutes later, in walks the doctor.

I immediately wondered:

Did they even have time to open a digital file?
A hard-copy folder?
A fortune cookie?

They must have glanced at my records the way you glance at a takeout menu when you already know you’re ordering the same thing as last time.

Ten minutes after that, I’m walking up and down a hallway, the Neurology version of a runway show nobody asked for.

No music.
No audience.
Just me, walking, turning, walking again.

The doctor then asked me to take a seat.

Then, boom.

“This looks like MSA.”

No buildup.
No context.
No deep dive.

Just: clipboard → hallway walk → life-altering diagnosis.

I sat there thinking:

“I waited ten months.
I filled out a NASA application disguised as intake forms.
I accidentally time-traveled to 1997.
After ten minutes and a brisk stroll, I’m being handed a diagnosis that will fundamentally alter my life?”

At that moment, all I could think was:

A diagnosis delivered at drive-thru speed.

Would you like fries with that?

At some point, the doctor kept talking, using words that sounded important and responsible.

I nodded.
I smiled politely.
I left Anta to absorb it all.

Because my brain was still stuck on how quickly we got here.

I had handed over a stack of records thick enough to qualify as a minor novella.

What I received back was a diagnosis delivered in what can only be described as a speed-dating format.

No “what’s next” conversation.
No lingering questions.
Just a confident conclusion and a brisk walk down the hallway.

This felt… symbolic.

This medical office, I realized, exists in a fascinating place where cutting-edge science coexists with a level of speed normally reserved for airport security and drive-thru coffee.

And the Good News

The good news is this: I eventually found my way to a truly great team at Vanderbilt Medical.

They’ve been thoughtful, caring, and genuinely attentive.
They listen.
They explain.
They go above and beyond, quietly, consistently, and without rushing.

Which doesn’t undo the journey that came before it.

But it does remind you that sometimes, after the absurdity, you land somewhere very good.

That part matters.

So, if there’s one takeaway here, it’s this:

Keep searching for the right fit, even if it takes a few wrong turns to find it.