Classic

She could not remember the last time raindrops had slipped carelessly down her sleek sides. She had stayed inside so long, only venturing out when I took her for short junkets on a rare sunny Sunday afternoon. Her recent years had been spent silent, hidden under her blue sheet, no doubt feeling abandoned.  But today was different. Today, mixed with the odour of burning leaves, was a tangible smell of excitement; real adventure awaited her. It was like the good old days. The hours spent exploring country roads or speeding down a freeway. They were simple times.  Carefree times. Classic times, really. 
   

"Babe" had always sported a soft, shy blue color since she came out of her Flint, Michigan, factory 45 years ago. She was always pretty and desirable, but had spent a good many years as basic transportation, suffering the normal bumps and bruises that come from undersized parking stalls and following trucks too closely.  But over the last 18 years she has become, like most of those who first drove her, semi-retired.   Even so, after some needed body work, new factory-authentic paint and restored interior, Babe must have felt brand new and ready to go. But to protect the classic she had now become she was, something like my daughter's cat, an 'inside car', to be taken outdoors only under ideal conditions.

Taking a road trip to California in a 1967 Camaro, powered by a 250 cubic inch motor, may seem like a trip down memory lane. The only thing is that my memory had managed to blindly glorify the 'good old days'. There have been some changes over the past 45 years.

Modern vehicles may enjoy luxuries such as multi-zoned temperature controls and expensive audio/visual systems, Babe had a simple fan/temperature/defrost control (no air conditioning) that worked best in cooperation with small, triangular, side-vent windows called, inexplicably, "no drafts", a long since outmoded feature. There was no back up warning system or electronics of any kind. The AM radio and windshield washer had not worked for years. The headlights were dimmed by a small, left-foot operated button, if you could find it in the dark. There was no cruise control, right hand mirror, 3-point seat belts (lap belts only), headrests, intermittent wipers (2-speed though!) or dashboard gauges (except for fuel and speed).   But … Babe did have… an ashtray and working cigarette lighter. You never know when they could come in handy.
Despite being in good shape for a classic, things are not the same.  She has to be driven more slowly, fluids checked more often and she does not idle as smoothly as before. Long trips, such as this one to California, are adventures more than comfortable drives, leaving us more fatigued than we had expected.

Babe, who has been in the family for a very long time, has become like me. Slower, movements are accomplished more carefully. Everything takes a little longer.  There are some undefined rattles and Babe shakes some, especially at faster speeds. She is trying her best to be what she once was, but might be better off just enjoying her new place as a classic; still fully functional and capable of more than being left in the spare garage. 

This little road trip will probably take a toll on both Babe and me. But it was worth it. Truly classic.

Halloween, Politics and Parkinson's Disease

Halloween is approaching so elections must be right around the corner.

When I was growing up the nearest city lights, such as they were, could only be seen from my family’s farm as a distant glow in the western sky.  Back then, Halloween was a major event in the lives of my friends. However, we had discovered that no matter how many O Henry bars, red candied apples, caramel popcorn balls or homemade taffy chews you ate that night, you actually lost weight. That was because trick-or-treating was a dark and sometimes dangerous walk between spreadd out houses just to extract a rather small supply of goodies. Long, muddy driveways, small, homemade snacks, dogs with questionable pedigree bounding and barking out of nowhere and, worst of all, no subdivisions, all led to a meager haul. Treats were literally few and far between. Trick-or-treating bore no resemblance to today's chauffer-driven, hundred-houses-in-an-hour, mad excuse for pillaging one's neighborhood on October 31.

However, for we young lads who, whether it was day or night, knew the countryside like the back of our hands, Halloween became an invitation to engage in widespread terrorist treachery; trick and treat. We were like the mujahedin waging an unholy jihad by plundering the easily frightened pilgrims of limited progress. Surprising as it may seem by today's standards, most groups of costumed youngsters werevulnerable, unaccompanied by any phalanx of protective adults. We knew what we wanted and how to get it. We were marauders in a frenzied but fixated state, armed with bandoliers of firecrackers. We launched "cherry bombs", "Tom Thumbs" as well as full packages of "red devils", "canons", and "ladyfingers", fuses lit, in the direction of our quarry. There were none of those “adults only, stand back, careful of your eyes and then say ooooohhhh and aaaaahhhhh" fireworks of today.

The fact that we teenage tyrants were disguised with blackened faces, and dressed in dark clothing when we laid siege, was, in hindsight, probably of questionable benefit. Everyone in our community knew everyone else. Anyone could identify the walk, the voice, the mannerisms and clothing of each member of our gang without much trouble. Nonetheless, we knew that the hapless targeted children were scared and more than willing to drop their bulging pillowcases and run for the nearest porch light. It only took a few of those Robin Hood raids before we could neither eat nor carry more booty. Thereafter, we limited our strategy to high grading each goodie bag. In this way we considered ourselves merciful, leaving the less desirable spoils well within sight of our victims, having only taken only the most sought after chocolate bars and other treats. Shocking juvenile delinquent behavior? Probably. But it all seemed to be part of a game back then. We neither meant nor caused any actual harm. We may have even saved a few trick-or-treaters from a night of terrible tummy aches!

Many of those seeking public office are selfless, community-serving, honest folks, not armed home invaders. But it seems that some politicians who knock on our doors with their hands out are really simply disguised as benefactors, glibly promising to serve the best interests of our communities. They come polling for popularity rather than standing up for principle. It is literally a modern-day trick-or-treat process at times. Those hapless voters who hand out the treats are more likely to avoid the tricks. But like Halloween, elections seem to come once a year. The days leading up to the event are filled with frantic activity in preparation. And when the voting is over, the masks come off, the candy is eaten, and life returns to normal.

Unfortunately, Parkinson's disease, like many other "causes", plays a role in politics. Profile and promotion, the endless appetite for press coverage and photo ops can often drive the plight of PD into the waiting arms of the press and politicos. It seems to me that we, the people with Parkinson's, must avoid being pawns in the game of partisan politicals. I  know, Governments, often under-informed, seem to be necessary partners in funding the pursuit of answers to the Parkinson's puzzle.  But, to continue the metaphor, we must remember that the hype of each Halloween dissipates quickly amidst the pressing priorities of what follows. Then it is the people with Parkinson's who are left, alone and unable to remove their masks.

The Un-Thanksgiving

Canadian Thanksgiving and I feel guilty. In fact, it seems like an Un-Thanksgiving.  Far from grateful, my thoughts are caught up in a whirlpool of discouragement and discontent. Life is not turning out as I had envisioned. I was going to grow older but remain healthy and fit. I was going to have energy in abundance and a readiness to take on ever more worthwhile challenges. I would stay strong and independent, caring for others, not others caring for me.

Instead, I have Parkinson's disease, and the "easy part", the first 5-year "honeymoon" phase, is in the past. Between fatigue and trying to keep up with a fast-paced schedule, physical fitness is limited to the occasional breathless walk up the 3 flights of stairs to my office.  An intricate medley of medication has sapped most of what used to be the boundless energy that fueled many fruitful hours of concentration. Instead of striding into an expanding horizon of opportunity, I need to take care to lower my sights to the step immediately in front of me. My 0wn needs, one day, may well outstrip my ability to care for others.

For instance, I used to love long trips by car, driving many hours without feeling any need to stop. Now, even a 10 minute drive has my leg muscles cramping painfully in a fruitless attempt to stop my foot from pulsing the accelerator like a drummer bouncing on the bass drum pedal.  I now prefer others to drive.

And my tremour, ever the insurgent, continuously invades my physical strongholds. My steadiness and dexterity retreat with resentment, having little means to retaliate.

My present circumstances find no metaphor in the sunny Sunday afternoon we had today. And the future seems threatened by lead-belly cloouds looming, ready to make life even more miserable.

But (there always seems to be a "but" doesn't there), just when my recitation of "things gone wrong" had almost eradicated the supposed benefits of a long weekend, I heard two simple words: "Hi, Grandpa". The sparkling eyes and intensely genuine smile had the same affect as a size 11 steel-toed boot planted firmly across the breadth of my lower backside. Perspective was instantly restored. Appreciation replenished. It was Thanksgiving again.

Eyes turned inward I had failed to recognize the beauty of the day, the multicolored leaves gathered in piles on the dew-drenched grass, the motorcyclists snatching the final days of two wheeled autonomy, and young men tossing a football outside a church as if flaunting their freedom, jackets and ties discarded. Stuck in the quicksand of self-pity I had forgotten the history of Thanksgiving. In Canada, the first Thanksgiving was in 1578, a celebration of survival, not of plenty in the harvest. The explorer, Frobisher, had made it back to civilization alive after an unsuccessful attempt to find the Northwest Passage by sailing through ice filled Arctic waters. In America, the 1621 Plymouth feast celebrated a "good harvest", although it was not enough to feed the 102 pilgrims for the winter. Were it not for the Native American population who provided the necessary sustenance, the survival of those pitiful pioneers was in serious doubt.

I have been so accustomed to everything going so well; marriage, family, friends, career, a treasure chest of dreams come true and more. But it seems that true Thanksgiving is spawned by deprivation more than abundance, simplicity rather than success, honest dependency not prideful self-sufficiency. 

Yes, Parkinson's may rob me of my steadiness of hand, leaving instead embarrassing evidence of my impairment. Fatigue may dog my daily steps and pull against the chain of unmet expectations. But, still, what an extraordinary life it is! Where weddings capture love, once lost or left alone in sadness. Where rocking restless babies, gently coaxed to sleep, brings smiles undimmed by fears of danger yet ahead. Where faith in something/someone bigger lends to life the meaning and the courage to go on. Where friends and family give so gladly, and forgive so readily for reasons left unstated. Yes, PD is a thief of grand proportions who would steal my love of words and wisdom, or commandeer my attitude and plunge it into darkness.

But I must choose to hear those words that wakened me today. It took two words to rouse me from that sleep of desperation.  And in the process I was taught to say another two, a truthful "thank you" in my heart, and to my world and anyone who’d listen. I've learned a prayer today. So while I have strength, breath and life to live, let me often pray these two words. Simply, sincerely, "Thank You".

Crunch Time

It was not yet 6 AM as my associate and I made our way with the commuter traffic with just enough time to comfortably make the 7 AM ferry to Victoria.  The rain streaked out of the darkness through the glare of commuter headlights and sentry-like street lamps before stabbing into my windshield only to be swept away by another swipe of the relentless wiper blades. The turn signal perched on the fender of the truck to my immediate left blinked twice.  On the third flash the dotted white line that separated our lanes disappeared beneath the black truck tires as they intruded with conviction into what had been my territory.  I felt as helpless as Holland in May 1940 when the Nazis rolled over the Dutch border, crushing any opposition and claiming the conquered land as their own.

My body, bracing for impact, went into instant Parkinson-like reaction, my arms and legs stiffened and ached at the same time. Then, like the crushing of an empty Coke can under the heel of a hobnail boot, my front fender crumpled under the invading tire tread.  Reacting, I cranked the wheel back into the point of impact as if to push the truck back into its own lane.  Apparently sensing some trifling challenge to its highway domination the truck seemed to give ground. Momentarily the grinding of plastic, metal and rubber stopped. But then, as if the truck driver had wanted to take a run at my defenceless vehicle, the unwarranted attack resumed.  The pushing match briefly continued.

I don't understand how I managed to avoid being forced over the curb into the waiting embrace of a power pole. But finally the ramming ended and the blue Save-On Disposal bin-hauling truck pulled over. Amazed at the surrender, I surveyed the damage from my driver’s seat, astonished that my midsized Ford was not more seriouslysmashed and still drivable.  The right fender and driver door clearly evidenced the predawn confrontation, and the dislodged side mirror clinging to the car by three wires was a symbol of the closeness of the clash.  I slammed my shoulder against the inside of my door to get out and confront the tyrant trucker.  After three attempts the jammed metal reluctantly gave way and the door opened with a metal-grinding groan.  It was striding toward the driver when it happened, the adrenalin-induced shudder and shaking.  Parkinson’s disease had reasserted its dominating influence, having politely waited until survival was no longer at stake.

The normal tremors were manageable, but under high stress their amplitude increased to 9.5 on the Richter scale.  Getting my licence out of my wallet proved to be an ordeal of dexterity that might have called into question my sobriety were it not before breakfast.  Writing down the information from the offender’s driver’s licence was impossible.  Even using my Blackberry to photograph it instead produced a fuzzy facsimile.

Despite the unplanned early morning “meeting”, we caught the ferry.  Breathing easier I began seeing the day’s events as metaphorical.  PD may not have wheels but it has often seemed relentless in its mission to push me off my path.  It is our persistent commitment to stay on track not the power of the opponent that will prevail.

Parkinson's, PJ and the Fair

It was not the Parkinson’s disease that caused the reaction.  Crotchety as it may sound, I just dislike county fairs. How many groomed Holsteins, decked out Morgan work horses and suckling pigs does one need to see?  How much gut-churning, barely edible, sugar-coated, deep fried lard must one ingest?  How many rip-off hawkers selling magic mops and labour-saving vegetable slicer/dicer contraptions do you need? Who really believes it is a test of a man's skill (females know better) to plunk down a succession of $5 bills to play some rigged, balloon-popping, mole-whacking or bottle-toppling game in order to "win" a too-big-to-carry-around plush toy ego trophy.  And who really needs to risk 35 seconds on a life-threatening midway ride with a name like "Corkscrew", employing excessive centrifugal force, bone-jarring lurches, and supersonic speed, all controlled by some elementary school drop-out who thinks it's funny when thrill-seekers jettison their cargo of over-priced cotton candy and grease-impregnated onion rings (as beneficial as that gastronomic purge may be)?  No, if I never have to attend another wallet-emptying, crowded, tired and tawdry fair again that would suit me just fine.

So what possible mental delusion motivated me to attend the 2011 Pacific National Exhibition, the largest fair in Western Canada?  Was it knife-wielding "carnies"?   Demonic-possession? Dopamine agonist-induced obsessive/compulsive behaviour? Or was premature dementia at work erasing those carnival-caused scars of my past?  No, it was the totally illogical, impulsive and illusory idea of a grandpa who had his grandson to himself for the day. Who would be better to introduce the lad to the garish and gawdy underbelly of entertainment?

If deep down I was hoping to cure 2 1/2 year old PJ of any desire to ever go to another fair, I was hopelessly naïve.  

He loved it! 

Starting with the livestock barns he was soon spinning, sprinting, dodging and weaving past stalls of prize heifers, coiffed sheep and sleek stallions. Next were the domesticated fowl exhibits. With the attention span of a squirrel with amnesia seeking out a misplaced stash of seeds, PJ squeezed shamelessly to the front of every crowd to catch a glimpse of some blue ribbon ducks, dozing pigeons or exotic hens. In a matter of less than 30 minutes our frenetic farm animal tour had exhausted me. Breaking out of the barns into the late afternoon sunshine we joined the human river in pursuit of alleged amusement. I had no appetite for dashing through the next building with its display of 4H handicrafts.  It became obvious that neither did my whirling Dervish of a grandson.  His eyes, staring almost straight up, were locked on the top of the Ferris Wheel.

"That one, Grandpa, let's go on that one."  Pulling my hand with the power of a small tractor he strained through the crowd with determination. The concept of lining up to buy tickets for anything was a real test of his patience, but especially when the actual process inexplicably required waiting in three line-ups: one to pay for PJ's ride pass voucher, one to get his hand stamped as evidence of payment and one to actually get on any ride. At each end of each queue he voiced an indignant complaint as if he and his entourage of one should immediately be ushered to the front like recognizable royalty. After all, we were wasting precious time shuffling along when we could be racing from ride to ride.

Of course there was a minimum height requirement that, thankfully, restricted access to most of the tummy-testing rides. I say "most" because the first ride for which we were eligible was the "Scrambler" where three benches whirled horizontally counter-clockwise while the whole machine spun clockwise on its axle.  Vaguely recalling the ride as being in the relatively tame category I succumbed to PJ's plaintiff refrain, "This one, Grandpa!"

It was different than I remember. Faster and with a force that felt like it would hurl us into the next block, I hung on to my charge. His expression was one of mixed fear and enjoyment and I prayed his lunch would remain in its proper body organ, whatever  state of digestion it was in. After a long 30 - 40 seconds of spinning we tottered our way to the exit with PJ admitting the "couch ride", as he called it, made him dizzy. Thus began the pinball-like path from the merry-go-round to the boats, to the kid-sized 4x4's guided around a neck-snapping course that mimicked an off-road experience, to the cars kids would "drive" around a track. We did them all, at least everyone that permitted him to ride, and many more than once. He refused to stop and eat (I was relieved) and the hours flew by as I enjoyed the sensory overload through the glee-filled eyes of my grandson.  Images of Pleasure Island amusement park, with Pinocchio and the wayward boys turning into donkeys, crossed my mind.

It was dark before I could convince (a.k.a., bribe) my grandson to leave the fairgrounds with the promise of ice cream.  My Parkinson's disease was making itself evident as I had grown increasingly stiff, muscle-tired and fatigued.  

The ride home was silent, except for the gentle snoring of the sleeping lad, had slumped into the corner of his car seat.  Sneaking a peek in the rear-view mirror I wondered whether he was dreaming about being buckled into another ride. The smile that had widened after each ride was still evident. It was then I realized my own cheeks were a little stiff and sore. But it was not, as I first suspected, my Parkinson's disease at work.  It was my own wide grin that looked back at me from the adjusted mirror as if to mock my smug resolve to avoid midways, sideshows and fairs. Perhaps I would go occasionally...for my grandson.

Misery Loves Company?

The small group that gathered at Evergreen Hall sat on metal stacking chairs behind plywood-topped tables placed to form a hollow square. The uncomfortable chairs with curved plywood seats and backs were not ideal for an audience I needed to engage for an hour while I spoke about "Staying Positive with Parkinson's". It was a diverse gathering of seniors, most of whom seemed to be dealing well with their PD symptoms. In fact, they seemed more concerned about my symptoms as I repeatedly attempted to refer to my speaking notes while they fluttered about as if trying to escape my shaking grip. I was offered, and gladly accepted, an upside down cardboard box to serve as my lectern.

"Why are they here?" I mused to myself. Was it just an opportunity to escape the daily routines dictated by the disease we shared? Was it to share a cookie and some coffee with a few friends and acquaintances who would not look questioningly at their shaking hands, stiff and shuffling steps or expressionless faces? Was it somehow an attempt to share, if only silently, the anger and anguish of a disease that demanded more from each of them every day? Were they here to hear a story of a fellow sufferer? Is it true that "misery loves company"?

A curious phrase, "misery loves company".  It originated from Dr. Faustus, a play from the 16th century about a man who was prepared to give up all hope by signing a pact with the devil in exchange for 24 years of living with his desires being fulfilled. The quote is from the lips of Mephistophilis, the devil's agent, in answer to the question about why Satan seeks to enlarge his kingdom. The phrase appears to mean that those who are unhappy seek to make others unhappy too. Is that true? It does seem that the older we get the more we seek to share our maladies, aches and pains; the pills we are taking, the operations undergone, the alternative medicine remedies we have tried. Are we commiserating? Are we truly seeking to drag others into a miserable hell like the clever demon attempted with Dr. Faustus?

The introduction to my presentation seemed to fit the Faustian quote. I asked, "How many of you have Parkinson's? How many of you are getting worse? How many of you have been discouraged by the disease? How many of you have been embarrassed by the symptoms?" Nearly all hands shot up after each question. No one was smiling. It was if I had reminded them of the misery they shared. There was the challenge!

“Misery” is the state of suffering, unhappiness or emotional distress.  Is that what we seek to share? Granted, there are times when self-pity, hopelessness and anguish shroud us like a dark fog. But, if we look intently, there is always encouragement, hope and purpose. While our PD may be getting worse, we can become wiser, more compassionate and patient. While depression may come knocking, we can choose to focus on the positive, the humorous, the uplifting. Despite the death of some dreams, trodden underfoot by this debilitating disease, we can discover new and heart-warming visions, a future packed with promise, and opportunities to make much-needed contributions that had been unrecognized before.

We do not need to become like Inspector Jauvert in Les Miserables.  We can refuse to be mired in misery. We can each venture with courage into the uncharted territory ahead of us, "looking for adventure and whatever comes our way".

Those dozen or so folks who gathered together were proving that Parkinson's disease has not defeated them. Their very presence encouraged me. My suspicion, as I looked in the eyes of those I barely knew, was that, in truth, misery does love company, but it is in hope that the company it keeps will dissolve the suffering state like sunshine disperses the rain.

Parkinson's is NOT Contagious

Anxiety, like acid, etched lines into the forehead of the obviously well-to-do woman sitting at the table next to ours. Her green eyes were fixed on the jerking arms and legs of the young man who had recently been seated at a table in the corner of the restaurant patio. Seemingly unable to look away, the faces of another half-dozen patrons betrayed the same mixture of fear and helplessness. Soon it seemed that everyone in the restaurant was watching the man's body as it waged a civil war, one uncooperative limb seeking to restrain another. Distracted by the obvious dyskinesia, few noticed the face of the struggling diner as he strained to hide the shame. He seemed to know that his dignity was in the process of being strangled by the stares of those who pretended to be looking at their meals. In apparent self-defense his pride seemed to take refuge in listening attentively to his female table mate. It was as if his companion was saying, "Don't worry. Just ignore them".

"I wonder what he's got, poor fellow. I hope it's not contagious” the tanned lady behind me ssaid, voicing her ignorance in too loud a whisper. She shifted position uneasily in her chair as she redirected her gaze from the unlabeled disease carrier back to her dessert. I wanted to apologize to the man for the woman's ignorance. I wanted to explain to his audience why the new dinner guest struggled to stab bits of salad on his plate and then negotiate them into his mouth. I wanted to enlighten my fellow observeers that, despite their charmed life of diamonds and dessert, it was lack of knowledge that fueled their fear, making man in the corner a "threat" to some. I wanted to tell him that I understood why he was seated on the fringe of the veranda that Californian evening. But even though we shared a diagnosis, I knew I didn't really understand; at least not yet.

Apathy and fear of the unknown can easily drive into isolation those who cannot help but be different. Parkinson's disease, unlike many other (even life-threatening) maladies, expresses itself in antisocial symptoms. The obvious rhythmic tremors of hands, arms, legs and even heads, the wooden soldier-like stiffness, frozen facial features and stooped posture all betray the brain’s loss of dopamine. While little pills can prop up our pride temporarily, they only give a short term dose of "normality" before reality returns with a new round of randomn movements.
 
But Parkinson's disease is not contagious. No one needs to panic. While daily dramas may play out in the lives of those with PD, it isn't likely to create pandemonium. It is not like the movie we saw last night, "Contagion", which portrayed a pandemic of panic. At least those of us who are "infected" need not fear passing it on through a handshake or even an errant cough.

Perhaps, all of us with Parkinson's need to brave some discomfort or embarrassment and embrace instead a new more inclusive definition of "normal". Or better yet, why don't we just replace "disabled" with "different". Perhaps we have a calling to portray Parkinson's positively. It is a disease to be understood, not pitied.

I was proud of that unknown person with Parkinson's as he staked out his place on the patio of that restaurant in Southern California. I expect it took some courage, but the longer he stayed the less attention he attracted, as if proving that, whatever onlookers believed he had, it was not contagious.