My Worst Enemy
I hate Parkinson’s disease. I don’t say those words lightly because I’m friendly and I try not to take life too seriously. That began to change back in 2008. I was sitting in the depot waiting for the bus to Downtown Manhattan where I would take the subway to Brooklyn where I worked as a court reporter in the Brooklyn Supreme Court. While waiting for the bus, my right forefinger began to spasm for a few seconds and then stopped. It wasn’t anything I had to be concerned about. Or so I thought.
A few days later I was walking to my cubicle when, for no apparent reason, I lost my balance and fell into another cubicle. I wasn’t hurt, just embarrassed.
Confirming the Parkinson's diagnosis
My doctor advised me to see a neurologist after telling him what happened. I went for a DaTscan test which confirmed that I have Parkinson’s.
At first, I didn’t really exhibit any symptoms. I had no dyskinesia. I didn’t fall. The neurologist explained the stages I was likely to go through, which I didn’t want to hear. I was being selfish. I knew how I felt then. Don’t tell me how I’ll be in ten years.
Well, I’ve had Parkinson’s now for fourteen years and it sucks. Everything I was told would happen has happened.
The Carbidopa/Levodopa, which I’ve been on all this time, isn’t as effective anymore. I’ve been ordered by my neurologist not to walk
without a walker. This is the fourth draft I’m trying to type because I can’t stop twitching, so please forgive me for any typos.
But tomorrow is another day, the first day of the rest of my life. All I can do is get up, shave, shower, get dressed and walk one step at a time, with my walker, of course, or a wheelchair if my medicine doesn’t kick in right away.
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