Living with Parkinson's - A Day

LIVING WITH PARKINSON'S - A DAY

Well I'm off to a good start. After a hot, restless night, sleep finally flees from the growl of the long overdue storm. Still dark, I watch through the window as a stiletto heel of lightening grinds into the office block. Without thinking I reached for pen and pad. The words flowed through fingers and pen but appeared as a thin trickle, just like the rain which had arrived on cue but went back into hiding as if threatened by the parched nature below. Moments of familiar frustration follow, but it is as it is. I resigned myself to reading while the alarm watch crawled towards 7.00am and tablet time.


Sitting up in bed, snug and dry and watching the drizzle of life giving rain, and trying to remember if I took my last meds about 10 seconds ago. The mini- horrors that visit during the night scuttle away as the new day puts a damper on irrational thoughts.    There is a lot to tell you, or share with you; small things but many, that occur during the day. Small things become gigantic if one changes perspective. Like the mountain that grew from the molehill in Alby's mind when they forgot his meds the other morning.  To Move to (Alby had lived in the unit beside mine for nine years. A prominent character in our fledgling community he had been active in darts and indoor bowls, as well as flag lowering responsibility. He clung to his independent living quarters 'till the end, even though hostel accommodation was available and staff shortage more frazzled by his stance.)

" GOMO" I had said. "What is that meant to mean?" "Get over it and move on." Through the constant murmur of test cricket I had tried to explain the advantage to his health in ‘letting go’, but lost the logic to the umpire on the TV. I think back on that and other stilted conversations between us, he with aids that distorted words more than filtered them from other sounds, and almost total reliance on mechanical gadgets to move him around....”move on”. The real meaning would have been lost at the time, but who cares, the test match was doing the same thing. Now the flag has been lowered for him. Move on, indeed he has, past the ultimate change in life.

In Moss Vale, Bertie(1) approaches while I wait for the bus. He has seen my stick, watched the irregular gait and brackets me as another possible touch. His florid complexion belied his attempt to pose as a citizen of note and I spy a slip of paper faithfully clasped in his left hand; reflected his hopes for the TAB being at least the short term answer to his thirst. “Could I lend him a 'quid' for a beer?” Hadn’t heard that word for how long? “No Mate, but if the bus doesn't come soon, I'll buy you one.” Was that me talking? No, that was life, living itself through me. The 'me' is the problem, that small person who perceives an inner war called Parkinson's as a limit to living.

Well, talk about war, this guy had been there in New Guinea when the Japs landed (the bus didn't come – you may have gathered) Yarn followed yarn, and I met his mates, and listened to stories- Vietnam, Korea, Borneo - all so much better than any in my limited repertoire. One could have said GOMO to most of these self made warriors, but in their own way they have moved on to better stories, better body language, better racehorses. There wasn’t a complaint or negative comment from any one.

Although once the largest settlement in the area, and established earlier, Moss Vale seems to be on a decline in prosperity in the shadow of Bowral's affluence. Nevertheless, this hardly detracts from the charm of the characters that stay on in this less booming burrow all have their own stories to tell; and they must tell them often. There is no doubt a good deal of exaggeration and some fabrication, but who cares if it's a good yarn and told well. After all is said and we have time to reflect on our own lives, what part is real, and what part is our own private version? To think Banjo Patterson and Henry Lawson made a living out of yarns like these.


                   I find myself making notes on the back of a coaster. The words are like spiders. I am reminded of the cars down below when last descending into Mascot. Notes that will be meaningless when needed later. Worse than that my last meds had been overlooked which promised a freeze up for at least an hour. GOMO I think. I had, for a while, moved on. 
        (1) Name has been changed