But this is the hand that I shoot with!

December 3, 2020

I sit around all day complaining that I’m bored. So how do I resolve that?

I have Parkinson’s disease. I was diagnosed nearly 15 years ago. I’m actually quite lucky because it has not progressed very much. I don’t work anymore because I don’t know when it’s going to hit. When it does hit, I don’t recognize myself.

I am a retired lawyer. I love being a lawyer and although retired I will always love being a lawyer. That Is No reflection upon my occupation, it’s a way of living, it is a way of thinking, it is the way of presenting another opinion. However, I hated the practice of law.

I also found that 15 years ago I enjoyed writing. Actually, I always did enjoy writing, but I never had the guts to try it. When I was first diagnosed with Parkinson’s, I figured I should write some stuff down. I started my first blog at that point. It was called “I was memoirs of a disgruntled attorney.”

I used the name Jello Marx. I felt that name was a way to express my love for American comics. The blog is still open I don’t use it often. It is now more a storage unit for my writing. I was spreading my wings. I found that I could write satire and parodies pretty well. I was discovered by the editor/owner of “The Global Edition.”

“The Global Edition,” was an online satire magazine. A bunch of guys trying to become “The Onion.” I learned a lot those 14 months and enjoyed every minute of it. A few of my stories were pretty hot on the web. The two biggest were “Canada Beefing Up Border Patrol In Event Romney Wins Presidential Election” and Bob Dylan admits a fifty-year hoax on the world. He can’t sing.

I must also give some of the credit to Parkinson’s. It seems that those suffering from Parkinson’s often do creative things that they never did before.

I have published three books “Memoirs of a Disgruntled attorney” I 2013.” God’s will” in 2016. And “curmudgeons conundrums and Druthers.” in 2018. Curmudgeons was illustrated by a great young artist, Gabe Schleifer.

Why am I here now? Because I want to write again. I think that my struggles. Parkinson’s Disease is a good place to start. Starting tomorrow will be a combination of both blogs Memoirs of a Disgruntled Attorney and But this is the hand that I shoot with.” The latter will be the name for the combined wor.8.

Fred Stavropoulos, Michael Schleifer and 16 others

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April 24, 2011

I keep fighting the feeling of exhaustion. I try to walk at least one mile a day. Today is a beautiful day. No jacket needed, the cherry blossoms are in bloom. Perfect walking weather. So I fought it. I walked about 2.5 miles.

Last week on my team was an ex-professional hockey player, his triathlon partner and a marathon runner. To them 2.5 miles is just the warm-up. Yet I'm now shot for the day.

I feel like I'm fighting an enemy who doesn't obey the rules.

When the weather gets nice, and I can walk, the "flop-sweats" begin. My meds make me feel better, but also throw me for a loop. I can fall asleep at any time. When I do sleep, the dreams are so vivid that when I awaken, it takes a few minutes to figure out that I was dreaming.

Parkinson's, you don't fight fair! All I can do is keep fighting back, and remember that after each bad period, there often is a good period.

April 20, 2011.Crash

The body is capable of strange things. Last Friday and Saturday I felt great. I was on a natural high. Since then I've crashed.

The adrenaline kept me going last week. The Parkinson's took over this week. I went to work out today and I had no stamina.

So which is the true me? The one who walked from 38th to 90th Street last Friday, or the one who struggled to get to 10 minutes on the treadmill today? I suspect that I'm somewhere in between.

The Parkinson's and the Medications wipe me out. I often wonder what I'd be like without the meds. Would I have a tremor? When I started taking them my tremor was insignificant. would it still be that way. I know that I'd have discomfort in my feet. I know this because I know have it until the pills kick in.

I never liked to take aspirin, Now I take 15 pills a day. Isn't that special.

April 10, 2011. Dear Pop

Dear Pop:


It occurs to me that 3 weeks from today is your 85th Birthday. We haven’t spoken in a while so I thought that I would bring you up to speed.

Every time I see a old Schwinn bicycle, I think that you’re sending me a message. It’s very comforting to know that you watch over us. I remember when you sold the stores. First the Sporting Goods store, then the Bike shop. You first offered it to each one of us. You were secretly glad that we said no. I don’t know how much you loved working there. I think that I loved the idea that my Dad owned a Toy Store, Sporting Goods Store and Bicycle Shop.

You never particularly liked sports, but there you were next to us and The Ranger games and later The Islander Games. Fast asleep. I tell a story about those days. There are 17,250 people at Madison Square Garden, screaming at the top of their lungs. You’re snoring. Suddenly you awaken, and say, “That was some play!” Michael says, “Dad, that was the Zamboni.” Only three people know that this is a canard. But when the rumor becomes fact, print the rumor. Anyway, I think that you’d get a kick out of it.

I remember as a kid wanting to have a catch with you. Before that day, I’m not sure that you had ever thrown a baseball in your life. You took out an expensive, Wally Bunker, Rawlings mitt from the store, and we had a catch. You weren’t bad. It meant a lot to me.

Every January we’d go to the trade shows. I know meeting Mantle, Mays, Aaron and Brooks Robinson among many others didn’t mean much to you, but you knew how much it meant to us. Because of what it meant to us, you enjoyed it.

As years went on, your love of family didn’t change. 10 years ago, I had 4 tickets to a Friday Night Yankee game. Of course one went to Michael, another to your granddaughter. We told her to choose a friend for the fourth ticket. She chose you. You hadn’t been on a subway for 30 years. (We took the 7 train to the 1969 World Series.) When she asked you graciously went. In the Fourth Inning, I looked over, and there you were, asleep.

I look in the mirror and I see your face. I wish that I had more of you. You used to say, “watch your words, you can’t take them back when they’re out there.” I know that you had a sarcastic sense of humor. You knew when to restrain it. I don’t always know. I’d like to learn to restrain my tongue.

Yours was a special generation. No hyperbole, but it truly was the greatest generation. Like many veterans of you generation, you first supported the Viet Nam war. Later you became vehemently opposed to the war, and all subsequent wars.

You may have been the most educated, informally educated, person that I’ve ever meet. You never went to college, I'm not sure if you graduated from High School. But if asked, I'd respond that my Dad was well educated.

You never were an enthusiastic writer, however. When I traveled Europe in the summer of 1976, I kept sarcastically writing and thanking you for his long letters. Until one day a letter finally came. I found in it 2 feet of toilet paper, with the words on the top Dear Marc, and at the bottom, here's your long letter, Love Dad.

I know that you worry about us, but don’t. You left us quite a legacy. Each other. My Parkinson’s has developed very slowly. I may be more functional today then I was when we last spoke.

Mom is great. You had great taste in women. My brother, my sister and your four grandchildren, follow your example of loyalty and love.

It’s been almost three years. I miss you dearly, but I’m not sad. I’m very satisfied with our relationship. We spoke frankly with each other and I know, just as I hope that you did, that we love each other.

I hope that you don’t mind if I write again. Please write back, I’m low on toilet paper.

Love,


Marc

April 10, 2011. A Little Bit of Luck

It's been a while since I've written. I've actually been spending my spare time reading. I always kick myself for not reading enough. I sometimes find it difficult to start reading a book. Yet I always enjoy it when I do read.

My mother gave me a Kindle. What a wonderful devise. It's light, it's small and you can download a book in seconds.

Believe it or not, I'm now reading "Goldfinger." I never read anything by Ian Fleming, and I'm enjoying thouroughly. I think that the thought of a Martini "shaken not stirred," appeals to someone with Parkinson's disease.

Why else haven't I written? Maybe because we often talk about bad things, but when things are going well we keep it to ourselves.

I feel great. When I stick to the "No protein for lunch" diet, the pills work and my energy is level is high.

I've also been touched by the reponse to my fundraising efforts. The Parkinson's walk is one week away. I set a goal of $1,000.00. Raised that goal, very quickly to $2,500.00. As of this writing, a total of 45 different people have contributed $5,309.00.

These contribution come form family, childhood friends, high school friends, college buddies, work associates, current friends and people that I've only met through my writings.

How could I be sad, knowing this support that I've received?

Parkinson's has no known cure. But these are the cards that I've been dealt, and I will play with them. even though there is no known cure, I'm winning most of the battles. In my opinion there are four criteria to winning these battles: 1) A support system; 2) exercise; 3) attitude; 4) Luck. The first three are a necessary component of number 4. So far I've had all four.

March 22, 2011. Shaken not Stirred

I was asked for a poem about my plight.
After a sort debate, I said alright.
Since you've asked for Poetry, Madam
I will try, said Marc-I -Am
My favorite poet was Dr. Seuss
So watch out now, I’m on the loose
Parkinson’s may have slowed me down
But on my face. appears no frown
Limbaugh may think that we are fakin'.
I'll mix him a Martini, he'll see it's not stirred but shaken.
Buttons, Ties and Laces cause me trouble
And I'd prefer to skip a shave and have a stubble
My handwritten is unrecognizable
sloppy, shaky and barely sizeable.
But if you attempt to match me, word for word
I guarantee, you'll look absurd.
Don't waste your time with this endeavour.
My mind is just as sharp as ever
Just as it was, when I did start,
It's my second favorite body part.

March 10, 2011- Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Perhaps the toughest part of this disease, is the mystery. Not knowing when, where or if it will get worse. Not knowing if the medications will start having a side effect. But this is truly no different than anybody else, with or without Parkinson’s.

So how do you choose to live your life, knowing that it could drastically change tomorrow. Mickey Mantle, believed that he wouldn’t live past 40. So he drank heavily and caroused, and was all in all a pretty miserable guy. He lived into his mid 60's, when his drinking caught up with him. Not only did he make himself miserable, but all around him suffered.

I don’t drink, and I’m not Mickey Mantle, so carousing has never been an option, but I did at times have the ability to make people miserable around me. I was often moody and sullen. Not a good combination with a quick sarcastic tongue.

Luckily I realized that as much as people may like you, they rightfully, do not want to be around somebody who is self pitying. Although others can avoid you, you can’t avoid yourself. Parkinson’s brought me to this realization. I wanted to have good days, and not bad days. Much of that was in my control.

So this may all end tomorrow, or it may go on for 35 years. Either way, I want my tombstone to say, “He made them laugh,” not, “What a bore.”

March 9, 2011. Further Notes from the Underground

There are certain activities that I concede to Parkinson’s Disease. Driving on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway is way up at the top. The merits of the BQE are that it has a view of Manhattan, that you can’t get anywhere else. The detriments are narrow lanes, a lot of cars, big trucks, and the Grand Canyon of potholes. I don’t miss it.

Downtown Brooklyn from my home in Forest Hills is about 20 minutes without traffic. It is about an hour and fifteen minutes by Subway, and a couple of months by the BQE. Today I had to go to Court in Brooklyn. This means that I must take the Subway. I have to take at least three trains from Continental Avenue to Cadman Plaza. It feels interminable and cost a lot more than the $2.25 fare.

On the train at Continental was a man selling batteries. Only batteries. I didn’t the batteries. The man not a particularly pushy salesman, he spoke no English, but I purchased four packs of expired batteries.

I was sitting on a bench where two average size people could fit. At Roosevelt Avenue a man about 6'8", 300 pounds squeezed in between me the elderly woman who was telling me about the wonders of Christ.

At Queensboro Plaza a man with a squeegee entered the train, he forcibly cleaned my glasses and demanded $5.00 for the service.

At Lexington Avenue, I switched to the number 6 train for one stop,
While walking to the platform I passed an accordion player who was singing, “You’re having my Baby,” in Spanish.

I was pushed onto the 6 train by a large woman, who was considerate enough to be privately listening to his rap music through earphones attached to his i-pod. I knew it was rap music, because, although she had headphones, it was still loud enough to hear every note. Also the woman sang along with the music, while playing his imaginary drums.

I changed for the number 5 train at 42nd Street. There a man entered allegedly collecting money to feed homeless children. Most people looked the other way, I gave him the lunch that my wife had made for me this morning.

At Wall Street, a familiar figure entered the train, Bernard Goetz.

As I exited at Cadman Plaza, after having giving $5.00 to the Bay City Rollers playing on the platform, I heard shots ring out from the train.

I later learned that Goetz shot the panhandlers. He’ll probably be acquitted this time.

It’s still better than the BQE.

March 3, 2011. The view from the cheap seats.

Let’s face it folks, there comes a time in life when selfishness must end. This time comes without credit. You don’t get credit for doing what you’re supposed to do. Does the star athlete making $20,000,000.00 a year deserve credit for starting a foundation with $1,000,000.00?

Where did my sudden passion come from? Besides Baseball, I never was passionate about anything. I always took the "view from the cheap seats."

Yeah, I spoke a lot, but never did anything. I always let the next guy take action.

People would know me as the wisecracking kid in the back row. So what happened?

Am I entering into this new journey of advocacy for myself or for others? It does make me feel better, so therefore it may be for me. Others who I may raise money for are therefore, ancillary beneficiaries. Does it really matter?

Could this be one of those cases where the ends truly justify the means?

February 27, 2011. Dream a Little Dream of Me

The strangest symptoms of this disease or the medication (I’m not entirely certain which causes these) are the hallucinations and the dreams.

At times, I see things out of the corner of my eyes that aren’t there. It’s usually something minor, like I think that I see an insect or a Red Sox Fan. Something that if I stamped out, nobody would miss, but it would do no harm to ignore. I look a second time and it wasn’t there.

The stranger of the two is the vivid dreams. So vivid, in fact, that I act them out at times.

I’ve had violent dreams and athletic dreams. My wife has awakened me in the middle of the night, asking me what I meant by something that I was yelling about. So far I’ve been successful in covering up my lustful desires for Sweet Polly Purebred.

As I’ve stated before, many of my dreams tend to be sports related. I’ve dove for volleyballs, shot hockey pucks, blocked basketballs and swung baseball bats in my sleep.

Sometimes I wake up happy, having enjoyed the dream. Sometimes I wake up angry, having made a strategic error in the dream. Sometimes, I wake up on the floor.

One time that I woke up on the floor, I dreamt that I had hit an infield grounder and in order to beat it out I slid into first base. Ignoring the fact that I was never fast enough to make such a play that close, I was pissed, because you never slide into first base!

Another time it was equally vivid. In fact, I even imagined an announcer.

“OK, here we go, we got a real pressure cooker going here, Two down, nobody on, no score, bottom of the ninth, There’s the windup, and there it is, a line shot up the middle, Look at him go. This boy can really fly! He's rounding first and really turning it on now, he's not letting up at all, he's gonna try for second; the ball is bobbled out in center, and here comes the throw, and what a throw! He's gonna slide in head first, here he comes, he's out! No, wait, safe-safe at second base, this kid really makes things happen out there. Batter steps up to the
plate, here's the pitch-he's going, and what a jump he's got, he's trying for third, here's the throw, it's in the dirt-safe at third! Holy cow, stolen base! He's taking a pretty big lead out
there, almost daring him to try and pick him off. The pitcher glances over, winds up, and it's bunted, bunted down the third base line, the suicide squeeze is on! Here he comes, squeeze
play, it's gonna be close, holy cow, I think he's gonna make it”

Now any Baseball fan knows the problem here. Why would the suicide squeeze be on with two outs?

February 25, 2011. New York, Los Angeles oh how I've yearned for you. Detroit, Chicago, Chattanooga, Baton Rouge

I rarely leave New York, yet recently I've been all over this country. I've met all sorts of different people, The two things that we all have in common is 1) we have an incurable Neurological Disease or we know someone who does; and 2) we've all bonded in some way.

There are those who write poetry. I can write parodies of songs and can rhyme anything with Nantucket, but traditional poetry no.

There are those who are frustrated or scared. I'm a little frustrated, not particularly scared.

There are those who look towards religion. I respect their beliefs, but it's not for me.

There are those who are lonely. At times that's me regardless of my 186 facebook friends. (if my Mom is reading this, I bet that she is glad that she doesn't have to cater any more birthday parties).

There are the cheerleaders. (Shake it to the right! Shake it to the Left! Give me a P....)

Then there's me, One of the Scriveners of the group. We deal with it by writing our every thought.

How did such a group find each other? I don’t know, but just as Dorothy felt she always knew the Scarecrow, I feel like I’ve always known these people.

The internet is a dangerous place, but sometimes it can be very rewarding.

february 24, 2011. One day at a time

I often start writing these without a clue of the subject that I’m going to write about. Today is such a day.

I started writing in November 2007. I was scared. I was depressed. I didn’t know where Parkinson’s disease was going to take me. So I started to write. It helped. Whenever I would be depressed, writing would pull me out of the depression.

As I speak to people who have PD, I find the stories strangely similar. Everybody went to many different Doctors, before one finally diagnosed the problem. All of us were told by one or more friends how their friend or neighbor had it and lived well for thirty years. My favorite is the friend who says. “I’m sure that everything will be alright.” Unless that friend is Nostradamus, that is the most meaningless statement that can be made.

There is no cure for Parkinson’s disease. There have been great strides taken to alleviate the symptoms. They know that exercise helps. They know that dancing helps. I personally believe that positive thinking helps.

The truth is, if I met somebody today, and he or she didn’t watch me getting out of a car, they would suspect nothing. Today is a good day. The weather is mild, the medications are working well, hence I feel fine. Tomorrow could be completely different. I haven’t had to cancel any appointments yet, because of the disease, but the day will come. It is just that unpredictable.

The worst time of the day is when I first wake up. I’m stiff and slow. Right now is the best time, between 12:30 PM and 4 PM. I feel great.

Since I feel great, and the weather is nice, I’m going to take advantage of it and go for a walk.

February 22, 2011. Life is for the LIving

There are few things in life that are guaranteed.

1) That no matter what occurs; Right wing radio will blame the "liberal, socialist media.”

2) That there will never be another Rock and Roll band that compares to the Beatles.

3) That I will never root for the Red Sox.

4) That the person sitting next to you has it worse off than you do.



Why is it that people feel the need to drone on about every sniffle? Everybody has problems, some may be insurmountable. Mine aren’t.

What’s different about my life today then it was before the diagnosis.

1) I’m no longer in my office. That’s just geography. My name still appears on the wall to my old office. My friends still call me to do work for them. I still use the office, and another, when I want to see people. The fact that I’m still working, has kept me vital, minimized the effects of the Parkinson’s, and kept my spirits up.

2) I don’t drive quite as much as I once did. So what!! Both offices that I use are within walking distance of the Long Island Railroad. I live within 2 blocks from the subway. Where I can’t get to by train or subway, there are always cabs from the train.

3) I shake a little. It makes for a great Martini.

4) Money is tight. I got news for you. This has been the worst economy since the great depression. It’s tight for everybody.


There are people hungry, the closest I get to hungry, is when we are out of Mallomars. There are people cold, I turn on the heat. There are people who can’t afford an education. My education continues every day. Whether my education comes from a book, a friend, a newspaper or life itself, it continues.

I’d rather not have Parkinson’s. My neighbor would rather not be in debt. The man living in the subways would rather have a home. The man down the street would be happier if his wife didn’t have Alzheimer’s disease. If you want to live in this world, it’s the price that you pay.

February 21, 2011, Danger Will Robinson Part 2

I’ve had an epiphany. I realized today that my condition is harder on my mother and my wife then it is on me. I have the choice to put myself in precarious situations they can only live with the consequences of my , potentially foolish decisions,

My mom should no longer have to worry about her children. It’s time for me to be seeing to her. My wife is constantly seeing the danger that I, Mr. Magoo, overlook. I have the luxury of optimism, she doesn’t.

I truly don’t know the resolution to this dilemma. I’m not ready, and she’s not asking, for me to curl up in a ball. Yet to put someone, whose priority in life is me, through this much tsoris is selfish at best,.

My wife is constantly pointing out dangers to me. My “grateful” response has been my patented, “enough.”

Somewhere there has to be a happy medium.

February 20, 2011. Little Deuce Coupe

I saw a commercial today that stated that the average American will own twelve cars in his or her lifetime. A car to a man is often called an extension of his "ego." (Not really, but there are ladies out there.)

I now own the last car that I will ever own. Probably the last car that I will ever drive. It's a 2003 Honda Accord. It has 203,000 miles on the odometer. Most of that driving having taken place in the first three years. It's a great car, extremely efficient, but it's not sexy.

In his fifties an American man should own a sexy sports car. There's something about a man in his fifties, squeezing his excess weight behind the wheel of a Corvette convertible. Picture the hair weave or comb-over blowing in the wind. The sun glasses with the mirrors on the inside, so he can always look at himself. The inappropriate nubile 23 year old, smacking her gum, in the passenger seat. You see there are bright sides to Parkinson's disease. It has prophylactically rid the world of me being that man!

I've owned cars ranging from a 1969 Impala to a 1977 280 Z to a 1985 Chrysler Le Baron to a 1999 Saturn. A car to me was a vehicle (although I must admit I did love the 280 Z). Now my vehicle of choice is the city bus. Although I miss the freedom and convenience of driving wherever I want to (I still drive, but I limit it), I look at it as another step in life. I'm lucky; I live in New York City. I can get anywhere by mass transit. I'm headed to my Mother's apartment this morning. It will take me about 1 1/2 hours for, what used to be, a half hour drive. But, I don't mind. I'll save money, I'll bring a book. It's life, make the best of it.

February 16, 2011. It's so Easy

Why does it take having something go bad, to appreciate what is good? I feel great today. The weather is better, I walked to the train this morning, no subway. And my new diet seems to be working.



The difference in how I feel, even from last week is tremendous.



I spent 48+ years, feeling great. I rarely got sick. However, I never appreciated the fact.



I'm a much happier person now, then I was before the symptons set in. Maybe it's the appreciation of what I do have. Maybe it's the challange.



Things came too easy for me. In school, I was a goof off. Everybody knew it. Although it did cause some conflicts, basically I could joke it away. Life should have challanges. Now I face a challange.



Don't get me wrong, I don't want this disease. I just wish that I had opened my eyes years ago.



I have no clue what, "You can't have you cake and eat it too," means. My thoughts are, "what the hell good is cake, if you can't eat it." All a bird in hand will do for you is make for a messy mitten. Why does Mick Jagger or Keith Richards want to gather moss? The one adage that makesthe least sense is that 'The grass is always greener on the other side." It's greener on my side.

February 15, 2011. Handy Man

Years ago, I dated an extremely wealthy young lady. She and her folks lived in Gatsby's area of Long Island. One weekend afternoon, when I came over for a swim, they asked me to change a lightbulb in their cabana. (How many Jewish Lawyers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?) Well I succeeded in the endeavor. My girlfriend's mother asked me, "How did you know how to do that? You always grew up in apartments?" After that they would invite me over to pull out pkugs, turn on light switches and flush the toilet.

My dad could fix anything, somehow he never passed it along to me. I'm not as bad as I make myself out to be. (See lightbulb, prior paragraph.) What am I getting at? Today I put together a piece of computer equipment. Sure it took longer than the average 4 year old would have taken, but I did it.

This was a real Nuckle buster. I searched and searched and I found my tool kit. As I opened it, I noticed the warning, "for children 6 and over." I checked my driver's licence. Good, I just made it by 48 years.

Now I have to figure out which end of the screwdriver to use. Next after trying to pound a nail with a saw, I realized that a hammer would be better for this. I now know how Lucky I am to live across the street from the Hospital.

TWo broken fingers late, somehow, even with PD, I got it done. Just call me Mr. Fix it.

February 14, 2011. Walk like a Man

As the “college widow,” played by Thelma Todd, said in “Horsefeathers” to Groucho’s Professor Wagstaff in a canoe, “Ah, spring in the air!”

“Oh sure,” quips Wagstaff, “I should spring in the air and fall in the lake?” (By the way, what is a college widow?)

Well today there is Spring int the air, so rather than take the Subway to the Post Office, for the first time in months, I walked both ways. A walk that is far less than 2 miles, and I'm exhausted. It's difficult to say if this fatique is caused by the Parkinson's or because I've let myself go.

My weight has fluctuated from a low of 179 at age 19, to a high of 285 at age 45. Today, I'm about 245. I'm beside myself, and there's not enough room for the two of me.

So basically, I've been slowly killing myself for 35 years. If I continue at this pace, if Parkinson's doesn't get me, heart disease or diabetes will. I've never met a cookie that I don't like.

I have been the typical American male. I love Hot Dogs, hamburgers, ice cream. As of yesterday all this ends. I had my fruit cup for lunch and if I don't eat the computer screen I should be OK until dinner. The ironic thing is, I couldn't spring in the air, if i actually wanted to do so.

February 13, 2011. Crossroads

The last few days I haven't felt well. I've been moving slowly. Having great difficulty getting out of chairs. I now notice when the medications kick in.

It's the first time in about 2 years that I've noticed a change, and I hate it.

The book that I'm reading suggests that protein blocks the Levadopa from getting to the brain, and suggest that I should eat more fruit and less protein. I'm going to try it for a few days. What's the worst that could happen. Nobody ever overdosed on Apples.

It's such a strange feeling, on a subway, rail or bus, I must give myself extra time to stand. Yet doing so, means that I'm getting up when the vehicle is still moving. I've wobbled, but I haven't gone down.

This is a crossroads. I can 1) Give up; 2) Fight it, just for myself; 3) Fight it and do something right, by advocating for others in worse shape than I am in.

My whole live, I've been style over substance. I have verbally bored people with my political stances, but have I ever once done anything about anything? Now is the time to start. I will starting today, do something for myself and for somebody else each day, and hopefully report back to you tomorrow.

February 12, 2011. A Life Shaken My Encounter with Parkinson's Disease

"...I'm flat on my back on a couch that's too short in a windowless room in the bureau. I can't even sit at the computer, much less make the keyboard work. My arms and legs are shaking uncontrollably. A;though I am only 53 years old, I have already been struggling with Parkinson's disease for seven years. And right now the disease in winning." A Life Shaken My Encounter with Parkinson's Disease by Joel Havemann, Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002.

Damn it! This is the book that I wanted to write. I started to read this yesterday. Made it about half way through the book. I'll finish it today.

Mr. Havemann, lives his life the way I would like to live mine. He is realistic about the disease. Yet at the same time goes about his life as best he can. After being diagnosed he was the caretaker for his aging father. He helped raise his three children. He also continued to work as an Editor for the Washington bureau of the Los angeles Times.

He, like me, had the support of his family ad co-workers. Not everybody does. He tells stories of people in his support group, who when their employers found out that they had Parkinson's, the employer made life on the job very difficult.

Parkinson's takes some adjusting. Mr. Havemann chose to immediately tell his friends and co-workers. This wasn't my strategy. His approach was very successful.

He learned all that he could about the disease. My approach, at first, was to stick my head in the sand. I've long since changed that approach.

He's concerned about dying with some sort of dignity. This scares me more than anything. I don't think that people are afraid of dying, they're mostly afraid of the journey. Dying doesn't scare me. Either I'm right, and there is no afterlife, in which case, I'll never know. Or others, who believe in an afterlife are right, in which case, I'll take Woody Allen's advise and pack a change of underwear.

I look forward to finishing the book. Mr. Havemann's approach an optimism is something that I'd like to learn from.