I woke at about 2:30 am and immediately felt short of breath. Why couldn’t I have stayed asleep a little longer? They will not be coming to get me for three or four hours yet. I was already in fight or flight mode, and had no hope of falling asleep again. My mouth and throat felt dry because of breathing through them, but I was only allowed small sips of water. It was going to be a long wait.

This was no ordinary day and my body knew it. I wasn’t allowed to take any medications to relieve the dyspnea (shortness of breath) I was experiencing. Medication could compromise the outcome of the highly complex brain surgery I was soon to undergo. I was anxious about what would shortly be unfolding. I needed the courage, which my friends and family had promised to send me. Where was it now? I had been preparing for this day for a year. This operation was my one hope of relief from my symptoms and regaining some quality of life.

During the first nine years after my diagnosis with Parkinson’s disease, I had been able to manage the symptoms well with medication. I could hike, bike, and ski in the mountains near my home, activities that my wife and I expected to do more of now that we were retired. However, by the winter of 2022 that expectation had begun to feel unrealistic, as the high doses of levodopa I was taking no longer kept my primary symptom, bradykinesia (slowness of movement), under control. The medication was wearing off several times a day, leaving me unable to walk, stand, eat, or type, until my next dose kicked in.

Just as troubling, when the drug wore off, I often struggled with dyspnea (shortness of breath). The feeling that I was suffocating was particularly scary. Then there was the dyskinesia, the uncontrollable movements of my arms, legs and torso, so erratic that I was often forced to sit or lie down. These symptoms greatly reduced the number of functional hours I had in a day.

In the summer of 2023, I contacted two Parkinson’s patients who had undergone Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS) surgery, a procedure that both described as ‘life changing’. My research suggested that I might benefit from DBS, but here in British Columbia there was a four-year waiting list for the procedure. I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting that long and, although the cost would have been prohibitive, I seriously considered going to other provinces or even to the States. Then, serendipitously, I learned from my neurologist that a second DBS surgeon had begun practicing in Vancouver which should shorten the wait time for the surgery. He agreed to refer me to the DBS clinic to determine if I was a good candidate for the procedure.

On 11 December I had a telephone consultation with Dr. Honey, a neurosurgeon. After reviewing my medical history and symptoms he concluded that I was an ideal candidate for DBS. He warned that there was a small risk of a stroke if he ruptured a blood vessel in my brain but he had performed a thousand of these procedures, and the probability of that was very low. He said that that DBS should give me what is “your best hour of the day, all day and every day!” My heart leapt hearing this. He had thrown me a lifeline!

Three months later, my wife, Jana and I drove to the DBS clinic in Vancouver for a pre-surgical assessment which entailed a high-resolution MRI of my brain and a physical examination. I had been required to stop taking my medication the previous evening, so was in an ‘OFF’ state when we arrived. After filling in several questionnaires, being interviewed and then videoed, I was told I could take my medication. The problem was that in ten years living with Parkinson’s, I had never been off my medication before so I didn’t know how much to take to return to my ‘ON’ state. After two hours and lots more levodopa, I was still ‘OFF’, struggling with bradykinesia and dyspnea. My symptoms were not responding to levodopa and I began to stress about failing to qualify for surgery.

Jana asked the nurse if she would be willing to repeat the assessment the following day. Happily, she agreed. It took most of the afternoon and evening to recover my functionality and calm myself. Then I had to go off my medication a second time. The next morning the nurse repeated the video assessment of me in an ‘OFF’ state, then this time, told me how much levodopa to take. Within 45 minutes I was ‘ON’, and she was able to capture the comparative video footage and quantify the change in my functionality with and without levodopa. She told us that although I had qualified as a suitable candidate for DBS, I should expect a 5-6 month wait for surgery.

It turned out to be closer to nine months, an almost intolerably stressful period because of my steadily worsening symptoms. But finally, in December 2024, here I was just hours from being wheeled into surgery. Gasping for air and petrified that I would get hit with a full-on panic attack on the operating table. I experimented with my breath work practices. Double inhale through the nose, long exhale through the mouth. Repeat. Some relief, but still uncomfortable. After several minutes of this, I tried my mantras, “You are safe, you are loved, you can trust.” Now I couldn’t keep count of my inhales and exhales, so I went back to breath work.

I got up and made my way to the washroom. When I returned, I decided a meditation practice might be a good idea. I set my timer for 30 minutes and started watching my breath. In for six counts, out for eight counts, “Your para-sympathetic nervous system will calm you, just stay with the breath”. In for six, out for eight. Breathe, one, two, three…

Thoughts came and went “In the last two years of living with dyspnea, you haven’t stopped breathing yet, have you?” And questions I couldn’t answer. “These panic attacks belong to the evenings, why now, why today? What else did my wife suggest I do to calm myself if this happens?”

My watch timer went off telling me that 30 minutes had passed by. When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t read the crooked clock on the wall at the foot of my bed. The room was too dark. My wristwatch said it was four o’clock. I was still panting. I was on my own. Somehow, I had to get through the next few hours.

I picked up my book and tried to distract myself. It worked. For the next hour or so I didn’t notice that I was panting, my mind had escaped. It was pursuing a better understanding of Bitcoin blockchain and was not conscious of my breathing. I set the book aside and looked up at the crooked clock, 5:00 am, nearly there.

A little later, a nurse came into the room and asked if I needed anything. He explained that I would be taken down for my MRI at about 6 am. He said it wouldn’t be long now, so I visited the bathroom again. I had a clear bowel and an empty bladder before going into the operating room. I even cleaned my teeth so that if I was breathing heavily, my breath would at least smell fresh.

The hour passed slowly. Right on the dot of six another nurse walked in. She had straight blond hair, cut at the shoulders to frame a face that you know has cared for many patients over many years. In a soft and warm voice, she introduced herself as one of the DBS nurses. She would be with me all day to support me through what was ahead. Relief washed over me. I was no longer alone.

When my DBS nurse learned that the porter had called in sick, she said she would wheel me down to the MRI herself. It takes practice to steer stretchers around corners and after a few minor bumps, we pushed through the double doors into the MRI holding area. Awaiting our arrival were several young doctors who introduced themselves as students of neurosurgery. They said they had come to observe the surgical procedure. I was going to have an audience.

With them were three practicing neurosurgeons from Thailand, Vietnam, and Australia who had visited me the previous afternoon. These surgeons, who had come to Vancouver to learn how to perform DBS surgery under a one-year fellowship program, were referred to as ‘fellows.’ I suspected that these ‘fellows’ would actually be assisting Dr. Honey with parts of the procedure.

A hush fell over the room when Dr. Honey entered. He came over to my side of the stretcher, smiled and introduced himself. He looked at me through large round John Lennon glasses and spoke with a slightly accented English that may have hinted at his doctorate years as a Rhodes scholar at Oxford. It was the first time I had actually met him, short of a 30-minute telephone consultation a year prior. His manner exuded the calm confidence that you would expect to find in someone who had successfully performed DBS many times. He humbly admitted that he thought I might be his 1017th patient. If you have to have neurosurgery, this is your man.

His first task, he explained, was to secure a specially made frame to my skull to hold my skull immobile. He warned that I would feel four nasty little bee stings when they injected a local anaesthetic into my scalp. Once these had taken effect, he tightened the four screws on each corner of the frame. I felt a lot of pressure and squeezing but after he stopped tightening the screws, I quickly became accustomed to the pressure and didn’t feel it anymore.

It only took six minutes to image the structure of my brain, but it felt like much longer. The frame dictated what position my neck had to be in when they slid me into the MRI. I wished I had asked whether it was possible to have extra neck support due to a prior fracture and fusion of vertebra at C6/C7. I was in terrible discomfort for the entire time the MRI clanked away, yet, I dared not move as this might blur the image. I was almost in tears when they pulled me out of the tunnel. Dr. Honey was very happy with the images and promised to make my neck more comfortable in the frame for the long surgery ahead. He and his team began studying today’s MRI image and the 3 Tesla (high resolution) image from my March MRI to plan the best path for the electrodes to take to reach their target, the subthalamic nucleus (STN).

About half the Deep Brain Stimulation procedures performed globally are completed with the patient under general anaesthetic. Dr. Honey is one of the leading proponents of conscious DBS surgery. He believes he can get a better result when the procedure is performed under local anaesthetic and without any sedatives. If his conscious patient is in an ‘off’ state (bradykinetic), he can get direct feedback from the response to macrostimulation by a test electrode, of the patients Parkinson’s symptoms while it is being positioned in the brain.

The DBS nurse wheeled me from the MRI room to pre-op. My surgery, she said, would begin in about 90 minutes from now.

The pre-op area was a bustle of activity with nurses passing back and forth at the foot of my bed. It suddenly struck me that I was pretty calm and relaxed for someone about to undergo brain surgery. Having been off my Parkinson’s medication since 9 pm last night, I thought I would be struggling to breathe all morning. I had been so pre-occupied with everything going on around me that I had forgotten this. A wave of relief washed over me “I am lying in pre-op and I can breathe!”

A nurse came into my alcove. She began questioning me – name, date of birth, next of kin, medical history, current medications, allergies, etc. She entered all that into a computer, then checked my vitals and hooked a bag of saline to the IV-line in my right arm to keep me hydrated. Finally, she sterilised my nostrils. She explained that the warm, moist, humid environment in the nose is a place where infectious bacteria such as staphylococcus aureus want to live. These can apparently migrate from the nose to open wounds during surgery, so this hospital does everything it can to minimise this risk. The nurse wiped methylene blue dye inside each nostril, then inserted a pair of prongs and gave each side a two-minute burst of bright red light.

My next guest was the anaesthetist, who had more questions for me. She immediately noticed that my right arm was swollen at the elbow. The IV had clearly failed and needed to be replaced. She explained that I needed to be awake for the first four or five hours of the procedure while they were positioning two electrodes in my brain. She would then put me under anaesthetic for the last hour while they tunneled the wires under my scalp, and placed the battery in my chest. She assured me that a nurse would give me my Parkinson’s meds before she put me to sleep.

Soon after the anaesthetist left, a male nurse came in to replace my IV. He marvelled, as nurses always do, at the large prominent veins in my forearms which made his job that much easier. My final visitor was the operating room (OR) nurse who ran through almost exactly the same questions as the first nurse had. I confirmed that I was indeed the patient on his computer who was going to be getting subthalamic nucleus Deep Brain Stimulation. He offered me a welcome opportunity to visit the washroom one last time before he wheeled me into the OR. It was 9:15 am.

The scene that awaited me in the operating theatre was a little intimidating. Along one wall behind my head stood the student neurosurgeons that I had met earlier in the MRI room. Next to them were the three neurosurgeon fellows, gowned, masked, gloved, and ready to work.

Once I had been manoeuvred onto the operating table Dr. Honey announced in a loud ‘town hall’ voice. “This is Andy Stradling. He is here to undergo bilateral subthalamic nucleus stimulation surgery. I am the primary surgeon and I shall be performing the procedure.” Then, one-by-one, everybody in the room stated their name and the role they would be playing in the procedure. I am pretty sure that after this, I was asked If they had my consent to proceed, and then they got down to work.

As promised, Dr. Honey made my neck as comfortable as possible before they bolted the headframe to the table. Once that was done, I was only able to move my eyes and mouth for the next five hours. I was sitting upright on the operating table, flexed at the hips with a pillow under my knees. I felt something being wrapped around my calves, and a few moments later was enjoying a gentle massage as the pneumatic device squeezed the left calf then the right in a slow and steady rhythm.

Near my left foot was the anaesthetist. She quickly hooked me up to instruments to measure my vitals, and placed a small oxygen line in my nose. A large TV screen was lowered from the ceiling. This displayed a live-feed from Maui showing a promenade and the ocean. It was still the early hours of the morning there, but as the hours passed, I was able to watch residents come down to the promenade to do their morning yoga practice, and see walkers exercising their dogs.

Sitting on my right side was my DBS nurse. She would occasionally look into my eyes, share a few kind words of reassurance, and give my hand a squeeze. Every now and again she would swab my dry mouth and lips with a wet sponge, and reset the Maui live-feed when it froze up. Quiet classical music was piped over the speakers to help make me as relaxed as possible.

I felt a few more needles go into my scalp. Then one surgeon took an electric razor to my crew cut, telling me after he finished that I looked like a well-known sportsman. This was followed by a very thorough scalp wash and massage with a strong-smelling disinfectant soap. Then the first scalpels went to work. Next, I heard clicking sounds which I attributed to staples being put in to hold the flap of my scalp out of the way. Dr. Honey warned that I would soon hear the sound of a drill cutting two holes in my skull, each hole would take about 30 seconds.

The DBS nurse squeezed my hand and told me not to clench my teeth during the drilling, as this would make it worse. I wondered if I might be unusually thick-skulled as it seemed to take a long time before the drill got through. After the second hole was complete, she congratulated me. The worst part, she promised, was behind me.

As the operation proceeded, Dr. Honey would periodically ask for a check on my vitals, and my anaesthetist would relay these to him. “Blood pressure, oxygen content, heart rate, all looked good,” she said. Once he asked her to administer a beta blocker which she did through my IV. This was to keep my systolic blood pressure under 140 mmHg to minimise the risk of bleeding when the team inserted the electrodes into my brain.

Underneath the skull are three membranes (dura, arachnoid, pia), that make up the meninges. My surgeons had to cut their way through all three of these layers to access the brain. The space between the two deepest layers is full of cerebrospinal fluid. This has to be sealed by spot welding the arachnoid to the pia, so that the pial incision does not cause a cerebrospinal leak. That might have explained some of the suction sounds I heard as the surgeons opened up the two access portals to my brain.

I sensed that the surgeons were attaching some sort of positioning device to the frame that would be used to place the electrodes in my brain. Meanwhile, Dr. Honey sat down at a neuronavigational computer to confirm the best trajectory for the electrode to take to the target. He then simulated the pathway using a virtual electrode to confirm that it would not intersect with any major blood vessels on the way. This process was time-consuming, but was probably the most important step in minimizing complications with the whole procedure.

The surgical team concluded their assessment of the target location and a surgeon prepared the positioning device for insertion of the first test electrode. Before pushing the wire down into my brain, he cross-checked all the orthogonal vectors (anterior, lateral, vertical, ring, arc) on the positioning device by calling out the setting and waiting until another surgeon in front of the computer confirmed the values by repeating them back to him. Then he slid the wire into my brain.

The subthalamic nucleus is a small structure, only 6 x 5 x 4 mm, and within this small area lies the motor territory which is the intended target for DBS surgery. The electrophysiological properties of the brain (ie. underlying neuronal activity) are used to confirm that the test electrode array is located within the target of interest. The surgeons carefully examined the recorded neuronal activity, looking for the signature that is characteristic of the subthalamic nucleus. I could occasionally hear Dr. Honey describing the wave signatures that he was seeing from the central, lateral, and anterior electrodes to his students. They paid considerable attention to this step. From what I could perceive, the surgeons may have been making very small adjustments to the electrode position based on what my brain waves were telling them.

I was preoccupied with what the surgical team were doing behind me and their whispered commentary on what they were seeing. They were professionals and careful not to speak too loudly while they worked. Apart from once, when I heard one surgeon say to the other “use two hands,” I never heard anything that might have caused me any concern. Just at that moment I was temporarily distracted by my DBS nurse squeezing my hand so I touched base with how I was feeling at this point in the procedure.

I must have been in the operating room over two hours by then, and to my surprise, realized that I was quite calm and relaxed in spite of all the activity going on behind me. My projected fears of struggling to breathe and having a panic attack had not materialized. The whole time I had been in surgery, I had been breathing normally. I felt another wave of relief pass over me. I was going to be able to get through this!

The doctors, finally satisfied that they had mapped my subthalamic nucleus using the three electrodes, turned next to macrostimulation. This was the main reason I had been kept awake all this time. I was roused from my relaxed state when Dr. Honey addressed me directly. “Andy, please count out loud: 4,5,6.” “Now repeat a little slower: 4, 5, 6.” The nurse and a neurologist took turns taking my right hand and testing the rigidity in my wrist while I opened and closed the fist of my other hand. They also tested how well my eyes followed the nurse’s finger as she moved it from left to right across my field of vision. The results of these tests were relayed back to Dr. Honey.

Once he had defined my baseline symptoms without any macrostimulation, he activated the electrode. “One milli-ampere – test, 1.5 mA – test, 2 mA – test.” When Dr. Honey got to three milliamps, he warned that I might feel something unusual at this level. I did. It was as if an invisible force was pulling my eyes to the left. If I hadn’t been bolted to the bed, I would have turned my head to look. Satisfied with my response, he then called for a portable x-ray machine to be wheeled in.

At this point, the whole surgical team left the room and I wondered if they had all gone on coffee break! Shortly afterwards they returned looking like an armoured battalion! They were all wearing lead shielding to protect themselves from harmful x-rays. Once the surgeons had collected their x-ray images, they went to work behind me again. Out came the test electrode array and in its place, the permanent DBS electrode was inserted down exactly the same pathway to the target. Fluoroscopic guidance of the permanent electrode relative to the test electrode ensures that it is positioned at the precisely the same location. I heard the phrase lock it in and in went the skull-plug to seal in the first stimulator and its leads.

Dr. Honey announced to the whole room that he had hit the bullseye with the left electrode and would now repeat the whole process on the right one. He told me the right electrode would be done a bit quicker as a lot of the preparatory work had already been done. By then, I had been in the operating room for about 2.5 hours. Less than two hours later the surgeons were locking the right electrode in place with the plug and starting to stitch my scalp up. Another bullseye Dr. Honey told me. The DBS nurse explained that this all boded well for me. Six weeks from now when the stimulator would be activated to control my bradykinesia, she would have plenty of range to work with.

Slowly and carefully, the team began to disassemble the headframe that had kept me immobilised for the past five hours. The DBS nurse carefully supported my head while the surgeons pulled the last few components of the frame off my head. It felt great to be free of the restrictions and able to move my neck again. My surgical team left the room, this time to shed their lead suits, leaving me and the anaesthetist. She had been sitting at the foot of my operating table with very little to do for the past five hours. Now, she sprang into action preparing to put me to sleep for the final part of the DBS procedure. When I asked her how my vitals had been during the ordeal she told me, “Good, better than most.”

The next stage of the DBS procedure would involve tunnelling the wires from the stimulator under the scalp, behind the ear, down the neck and into the battery. The battery would be inserted into a small pocket that the surgeon would make in my chest. This was not something that anyone would want to stay awake for.

The DBS nurse returned and asked me if I needed to urinate. I replied with an uncertain, “Maybe.” Could I do this in front of an audience of surgeons and students? What if I got stage fright and failed in this endeavor? Sensing my dilemma, the nurse said, “If you prefer, we can check your bladder while you are under anaesthetic and drain it if it is full.” This sounded like a much less embarrassing option, so I took it.

The anaesthetist made a mental note of this request then gave me a mask with a long hose attached and placed it over my nose and mouth. “Take a few deep breaths and think of something very pleasant,” she instructed. My mind went immediately to the big rock at Bannock Point overlooking Slocan Lake. Jana and I laid down in the warm sun, and fell fast asleep.

I woke up in the recovery area and, groggy though I was, recognised my nurse and anaesthetist. Their happy and caring smiles told me all must be well! The recovery room nurse began checking my vitals and neurological signs. Respiratory rate, blood oxygen, blood pressure, temperature, pupil dilation, grip, arm, and leg strength. “What is your name? Where are you? what day is it?” I could tell that they were also monitoring my heart, as I had ECG leads on my chest. These vital checks and tests were repeated every 15 minutes for the next hour. After the first or second set of readings, my DBS nurse and anaesthetist seemed satisfied that I was recovering well from the anaesthetic, so they said their good byes and left. It had been a long day for them as well.

Soon afterwards I was visited by the three neurosurgeon fellows who, in my recollection had performed some of the significant steps in the procedure. They were understandably reticent to admit to this, however seemed to appreciate the praise and sincere thanks I offered for their professionalism and expertise. They too wanted to feel me squeeze their hands, lift my arms up against their resistance, and push-pull my feet while they held my toes.

The next visitor to my bedside was Dr. Honey. He told me he was very satisfied with how well the procedure had gone. As a patient, I had witnessed the incredible complexity of this procedure, the care and attention he had given to every detail, the calm confidence he had in his methods and his team, and the warmth of his bedside manner.

These sentiments seem inadequate, because it is hard to put into words what I really wanted to express to him. I had placed my trust in his expertise when agreeing to DBS surgery that this operation would offer me significant relief from my symptoms. Importantly, I believed in the possibility that I might once again find the joy in living, in his words, “my best hour, 24/7.” Could I express any of this to him now? No! The only words I could come up with were, “Can you please call my wife?”

Another half an hour passed before they released me from the recovery ward and a porter started wheeling me back to my room. As I was being pushed towards the elevator, tears I had been holding back for months began to flow. I realised that I had made it to the other side and could at last put down the heavy burden I had been carrying since my first conversation with Dr. Honey over a year ago.

Emerging from the elevator I saw Jana in the corridor waiting for me. I always think that my wife has a smile that could light up a room. Looking past her smile and into her eyes revealed a mixture of love and relief. I was again blinded by tears, knowing that she had been at the hospital all day anxiously awaiting my return. She too began crying. “It’s okay,” she said rubbing my foot, “It’s over now.”

“Good,” I said with profound relief. “Because I couldn’t go through that again.”

It was 4:00 p.m. Ten long hours since I had been wheeled out of that room to go to the MRI.
I settled back on my bed while Jana relayed to me what Dr. Honey had said when he called her. The procedure had gone very smoothly he told her, “Andy’s response to the turned-on electrodes during surgery was fantastic. This bodes very well for the future.”

“He sounded so happy,” Jana said. “He told me, Andy was an ideal patient.” As Jana shared this, and his reassurance that it had been a successful procedure, neither of us could stop crying.

My evening meal of roast pork and veggies arrived just before 5 pm. I hadn’t eaten anything in the previous 24 hours and hadn’t realised how hungry I was. Even hospital food can seem like a banquet when you are absolutely empty of food and filled to bursting with gratitude.

Shortly afterwards, a nurse came in with a dose of levodopa for my Parkinson’s and some Tylenol. I had woken from surgery with a nasty headache, which was to be expected. The two tablets I was allowed every four hours was only just managing this. When I asked if I could also apply my Neupro patch (a dopamine agonist which mimics the effects of dopamine in my brain), he said he would have to check with one of the doctors first.

Jana asked me if I would like her to take a photo of me post-surgery to send to friends and family. We started listing the names of all the people who had asked us to let them know how it had gone. It was a long list. That photo of me sitting in bed smiling and giving Jana a thumbs up went viral that afternoon as we texted it to friends across Canada and in the UK. They texted it to still more friends who they thought would want to share the good news. 

Andy post-DBS

As we worked our way through the list of names, we started receiving replies and a few phone calls from those we had already contacted. One of my best friends in the UK had woken at 4 o’clock in the morning to check his phone for news. His reply, along with many others, sent us into tears again. Jana and I took such strength from everyone’s replies. Family, friends, and our little mountain community had given us both so much support in the lead up to this life-changing surgery! We both felt so loved by everybody.

At about 6 pm, Jana left to return to our condo and have her dinner. Whilst she was gone, I received a visit from the Australian neurosurgeon fellow. He quickly ran though his neurological examination and then we chatted a while about tennis in Australia, and what sports I would like to indulge in when I have been activated. Just as he left, the nurse came in and gave me the go ahead to apply my Neupro patch. When Jana returned at 7:30 pm we shared a few more responses from friends and family and reflected on the deep gratitude we felt towards Dr. Honey and his team for the care they took to ensure the procedure was a success.

I slept a little restlessly from about 10 pm until 4 am. I woke needing the washroom, but I was hooked up to an IV, and still had the pneumatic calf massager working on my legs. With a little help from my nurse, we were able to disconnect the massager, and I wheeled the IV pump stand into the washroom with me. Looking in the mirror gave me a bit of a shock. For the first time I came face to face with the significance of the surgery I had gone through. I had several large dressings on my head and a big lump on my chest where the battery was sitting. When I touched my neck, I could feel the wires just under the skin.

I laid back on the bed and looked at the crooked clock on the wall. What a wild and crazy journey this had been. So many questions ran through my mind. How much of work on my brain was done by Dr. Honey? How much by his fellowship students? Was he really confident that he had hit the target on both the left and right sides? How did I ever come though that surgery without having a serious panic attack?

My breakfast arrived and with it my second dose of levodopa, but I would have to wait until 8:30 am before I could take more Tylenol for my headache. At 9 am I would be taken down for a CT. scan so I texted Jana not to bother showing up until about 10 am. I finished the last couple of chapters of my book and, as I was able to move about more easily now, made my way to the washroom to clean my teeth and splash warm water on my face.

The CT scan was quick and painless. I asked for extra neck support but the scan was over in less than two minutes. When I got back to my room, I decided to get dressed so everyone would know that I was keen to be discharged. The Thai neurosurgeon fellow arrived with news that my CT was good; no signs of any bleeding around the two electrodes, only some minor trapped air that would resolve itself. He ran through the usual neurological tests and appeared quite satisfied with the results.

There was now only the physiotherapist between me and my discharge from the hospital. Jana, arrived to find me in my going home clothes. I asked if she wouldn’t mind straightening the clock on the wall at the foot of the bed. It was driving me crazy!

At last, the physiotherapist poked his head into my room and invited me down to his lab where he had some stairs I needed to climb. After I demonstrated my functionality to his satisfaction, he walked me back to my room. He warned me that I was not to lift, pull, or push anything with my left arm for the next six weeks, nor should I raise that left arm any higher than my ear.

I called for the nurse one last time to remove my IV so she could discharge me. Then Jana wheeled me down to the lobby and went to fetch her car. I would spend the next two nights recovering in our rented condo before we tackled the long drive home.

The worst might be behind us, but this journey is far from over. I’ll have to return to Vancouver to have my DBS unit activated six weeks from now after any inflammation has subsided and my incisions have healed. The tuning process will take another month or two as the nurses gradually ramp up the stimulation and decrease my medication.

The last two years of living with the symptoms of advanced Parkinson’s have been extremely difficult for Jana and me. The thought of what I would do if my neurologist had not recommended me for DBS surgery —or if I had failed to qualify for it in the pre-operative assessment back in March —does not bear thinking about. With this operation in my rearview mirror, I can now look forward to lasting relief from the debilitating symptoms of Parkinson’s. 

Deep Brain Stimulation aims to smooth out the wild fluctuations in symptoms caused by my medication dosage cycle. The concurrent reduction in my daily levodopa dose should virtually eliminate dyskinesia. As for my dyspnea (shortness of breath), the surgeons were a little less definitive. To the extent that this is a wearing off phenomena, it should improve with DBS together with my bradykinesia. It is less likely to improve if it is primarily a non-motor symptom of my Parkinson’s. Jana and I are optimistic that we will see improvements in all three of my major symptoms when my stimulator is activated. The hope that has sustained us on this long journey is still there; the hope that the next chapter will offer an improved quality of life, and who knows, maybe even a little joy and laughter as well.