Parkinson’s disease a clawing, snarling brute in my life
Ten years ago this spring I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.
I’m resigned to the fact that this condition will be my traveling companion for the remainder of my life. Ultimately, it may take me down.
But not today.
Parkinson’s is a progressive neurological disorder with no known cure. It causes nerve cells to die or become impaired. Patients exhibit such symptoms as tremors or shaking, slowness of movement, rigidity or stiffness, loss of facial mobility and balance difficulties. Other signs include a shuffling gait, cognitive problems and muffled speech.
My body may harbor Parkinson’s, but the disease will never own me. My last day on Earth will be its final day of wreaking havoc on my nervous system. I fully expect my journey to continue beyond the bounds of life’s threescore and 10. In eternity, we’re promised perfection.
Christian doctrine clearly teaches that.
April, by the way, is Parkinson’s Awareness Month. That’s the purpose of this column: to provide a first-person report.
When I was diagnosed a decade ago, I wasn’t caught off guard. I had my suspicions. Over many months, telltale signs of the disease came creeping into my consciousness.
Every subtle hitch in my gait, every almost imperceptible involuntary twitch of a finger and every momentary hiccup in my balance served as a warning signal.
“Ha, ha, ha! We’re here,” goaded my advancing symptoms. “And, for your information, we’re not leaving!”
My diagnosis was the worst possible news I could receive. I took every opportunity to dismiss it. There were other less dire conclusions I preferred to consider for myself: It’s just stress; I strained a muscle in my finger; physical therapy should mend this condition.
If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck …
I’m perfectly fine, I argued unconvincingly. But I was hurtling out of control, down an Olympic ski jump ramp, soon to be airborne.
Twenty years ago, at the age of 74, my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I was blissfully ignorant of the ramifications of the disease. When my mom informed me of Dad’s condition, my response was, “Is he going to die?”
He lived another 10 years and died at 84. But it wasn’t an easy road.
I observed Dad’s inexorable decline into a shuffling old man. I watched him waste physically and slide into dementia.
Sheer agony.
Thankfully, dementia doesn’t automatically accompany every case of Parkinson’s. Each situation is unique.
But the physically fit, energetic and intellectually gifted father that I admired so much, even seven and eight years into his diagnosis, was quickly becoming enfeebled and empty. In years nine and 10, I looked into his eyes and saw no one that I could recognize.
Our conversations were sola voce. I did the talking.
“Lord, just so you know, I want nothing of this disease,” I selfishly prayed, attempting to negotiate with the Almighty. “Saddle me with anything — just not Parkinson’s!”
For a time I didn’t worry about getting Parkinson’s because I figured I had a built-in firewall — Dad. If he had it, the likelihood of me getting it too must be slight.
Right?
Employing my oversized ego and flawed logic, I reasoned Dad’s plight would never become mine. I was living a fool’s paradise.
The year before Dad passed I began experiencing symptoms that echoed his. I waited for them to subside. They didn’t.
Finally, I could no longer hide symptoms from my wife. A visit to a neurologist confirmed my suspicions. No more “maybe nots” in my internal conversations.
Dad died six months later without me telling him that I, too, had Parkinson’s.
When I was a kid it was polio that haunted my generation. Now, as an aging baby boomer, it’s Parkinson’s. I wish I could tell you a modern-day Jonas Salk has emerged with a miracle vaccine to eliminate this scourge. He hasn’t.
Some shadows in the dark are just that — shadows. Others are clawing, snarling brutes. Parkinson’s is such a brute.
Without Christ, I don’t know how I’d manage this.
JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.