The Bell Rings Max

I have always taken my good health for granted, but I was recently reminded that nothing should ever be taken for granted.

Late in July, at the tail end of writing the Grand Slam of Poker tournament reports for the Hustler Casino, I began getting very tired and dizzy. I attributed it to the grueling hours and coped as best I could. Then, as I switched to the Legends of Poker write-ups for The Bicycle Casino, I noticed one evening that I was dribbling from my coffee cup and couldn't blink my right eye. I went to the emergency room the next morning and was told that I had contracted Bell's palsy.

Bell's palsy is an inflammation of the seventh cranial nerve. It results in a paralysis of the muscles on one side of your face. It's not life-threatening, but it's definitely lifestyle-threatening. It's one thing to write funny, but quite another thing to look and talk funny. All of a sudden I found myself speaking out of the side of my mouth, like a gangster in one of those Warner Brothers movies of the '30s. I talked worse than Big Denny and almost as bad as John Bonetti. When I tried to pronounce a word starting with the letter "f," my breath would shoot out of one side of my face. At least I wouldn't have to worry about being penalized for saying the f-word, because I couldn't say the f-word if I wanted to.

When I attempted to smile, one side of my mouth went north, the other stayed put. I had just spent a fortune on one of those teeth-whitening kits. Now I had nice pearly whites, but I was unable to smile and show them. I couldn't eat, drink, or even spit properly. And since I wasn't getting the moisture that blinking provides, I had to keep dousing my right eye with drops to avoid injury. Altogether, it was a lot of fun.

There were other consequences, as well. Along with numerous tests, I was weighed and measured and became chagrined when I discovered that over the years I had shrunk and was about 2 inches shorter than I thought I was. (Don't get smart; I'm talking about my height.) So I was not just a freak, now I had to also worry about becoming a midget freak.

I began doing research on Bell's palsy. It hits some 50,000 Americans each year. The cause is poorly understood. It's believed that some cases might be caused by a virus and others by a herpes infection, but the most common reason is thought to be aggravation brought on by having to listen to too many bad-beat stories. Treatment also presents a puzzle. The standard treatment, which was prescribed for me, is Prednisone, a steroid. But some studies, I discovered, indicate that recovery is the same whether you're treated or not. I found several poker players who had come down with Bell's palsy, or knew someone who had. All kinds of alternate or supplemental treatments were suggested, such as massage and electrical stimulation. Brent Carter told me he knew someone who got well after undergoing acupuncture. Other suggestions ranged from herbal tea enemas to bikini waxes.

OK, I'm getting a little silly here, but it really wasn't funny. I was staggering around from intermittent dizzy spells, talking like Daffy Duck, dribbling coffee, needing a water hose to keep my eye moist, all the while trying to follow the tournament action, take notes, and write semicoherent reports.

But the really scary thing is that the course of Bell's palsy is unpredictable. Sometimes it clears up in a few weeks, sometimes in a few months or years. In about 10 percent to 20 percent of cases it's permanent.

Then it hits you. You might well end up forever looking and sounding a bit like those unfortunate souls whom little kids thoughtlessly delight in mimicking and mocking. You know, the "retards."

All of a sudden your whole perspective changes. It's like Superman changed the rotation of the earth. You get a hint of your mortality and begin to feel compassion for people with handicaps now that you, in a sense, have one, too.

Oh, I've been disabled in one way or another a couple of times before. The first time I tried to ski I ended up on crutches. Once, I came down with double vision, which meant that when I played poker and had a pair, I thought I had quads, and when I played tennis, I never knew which ball to swing at. But the broken ankles healed and the double vision cleared up on its own, as expected. This time I had no guarantees and had to wait and see.

I thought about writing a column about this thing. After all, if Andy Glazer could write about his bad back, and Linda Johnson about her gastric bypass surgery, why shouldn't I talk about my Bell's palsy? The question was, do I write it immediately, while still in the throes of my affliction, so that my fans could feel sorry for me and send me get-well cards and money? Might Barry Shulman feel so touched by my plight that he'd give me a raise? (Yeah, right. There's as much chance of that happening as there is of Superman changing the rotation of the earth.) Or should I wait, hope the thing goes away, and write it as a drama: my near miss, my thankfulness at being spared, my new sense of compassion for the afflicted?

Nah, that wouldn't work. I knew that if it cleared up – and I have good pot odds that it will – my newfound compassion and empathy would vanish, too. So I decided to write it now and at least get a few bucks from a column, and maybe even that big raise that any kindhearted and caring boss would come up with. And, if I do get hit with a really bad beat and this thing doesn't go away, at least people will understand why I sound like Daffy Duck.

Thuffering thuccotash!