The Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville is a beautiful campus. It’s the kind of place you see in non-dystopian futuristic movies where everything is crisp and clean and groomed, and the buildings are shiny and white. It exudes peace and healing and shelters you from the reality that sits outside its bounds but makes you wonder why the rest of the world can’t be like this.
I’m writing again to see if it miraculously makes me feel better while I wait to see the neurologist for the first time. It doesn’t seem to be working.
I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that I’m symptomatic for this visit. Communication will be challenging, but I did myself a solid during periods of clarity and wrote down everything I would hope to communicate today.
My uncle Bill was correct yesterday. He called me to wish me well and let me know he may be at Mayo today if he is lucky enough to get a call. It’s not knowing that is the worst part right now. Not knowing what is happening and how bad it is. He has it bad, and Mayo may be his last hope, but he knows the name of his assailant. I don’t know if we’ll get to put a name on my condition today, but it should be a massive step in the right direction.
After my call with Bill, I realized that he has my favorite voice. It somehow encapsulates all of his siblings, my aunts and uncles, and wraps it in a sweet southern lullaby that soothes the heart. He is a singer-songwriter who nearly broke through like so many others. After the call, I found his appearance on Star Search from 1986 on YouTube. He did great, and it was the best thing I’ve seen in a long time. Like this campus, he exuded calmness and peace with a heavy amount of pure happiness on top.
I was called into my appointment before finishing this post.