I was first diagnosed with PD when I was 49. At the time, my wife and I decided to keep it quiet. My father was ill, and we felt that it would have been too much for my folks to handle at that time.
My folks had always been an integral part of my life. Not sharing this with them was difficult, but was part of the continuing process of growing up. i spent most of my Sunday mornings the next two years visiting my Dad. At first I would drive into Manhattan. Later, when I became uncomfortable driving in the City, I would take the bus. By that time I had told my folks.
With my father ill, and my future unsure, I was depressed. I didn't concentrate on my business. The coinciding with the worst economy in 70 years spelled near disaster.
My wife, far wiser than I, saw the future. She realized that my days of a 50 mile round trip commute were over, so she exercised insider rights given to us to purchase another unit in our building, and convinced me that we should purchase a studio apartment. My office is now on the 17th floor, my apartment on the 10th. An easy commute.
My friends on the Island also allowed me to use their offices. These offices are near the Long Island Railroad so it's also an easy commute.
I have and have always had bad work habits. I'll work for 20 minutes, walk around the office and "kibitz" for 10 minutes and back to work. The problem arose, who do I "kibitz" with on the 17th floor? The answer arose, The internet. I started to reconnect with old friends. One day around that time I woke up. The depression was just a waste of time.
I continued to spend my Sunday Mornings with my Dad. My dad was a special man. The most educated, informally educated man that I've ever met. He could have been, and in his own way was, a brilliant engineer.
Although Dad sold sporting goods, he never was a sports fan, but his two sons were. So dad would take us to the Garden to see the Rangers. 17,000 people would be screaming. Dad would be snoring. He wake up and say, "That was a great play." my brother would say, "Dad, that's the Zamboni." The story is not completely true. However as they said in, "The Man who shot Liberty Valance," "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend."
I miss my Dad. I wouldn't have given up those last two years of visits for anything.