"Faster than an unplanned trip down over the cellar stairs!
More powerful than a bed time restless leg spasm!
Able to trip over a small piece of Lego in a single bound!
Look. Up in the sky. Its a tree tipping over. It's a Frankenstein's monster!
It's.....
"Parkie's Man"!
The most difficult thing about having Parkinson's has got to be how it makes you think of yourself, your body, your place in the physical world..... No, wait. The worst part is dropping stuff all the time. I cannot make even a single damn sandwich without dropping my spoon on the floor. Or a jar of peanut butter. Or my entire sandwich. It can be a pain. No, wait, the worst part is what it does to your speaking voice. Since I've had the Parkour's, my voice is weak. My speech is mushy. I mumble. I talk too fast. I don't know why, but THAT has got to be the worst part. Wait, no, it's the falls....Well, you know, really I guess all of it sucks. Well, except all the extra babes. Chicks dig the 's'Parklies'. I don't know why, but they do. I've gotta' chase 'em off with a stick!
No, actually, besides all of it sucking, the parts I have a hard time getting used to is just that it is always there, all the damn time. It's always there, presenting itself in a way that causes you to bitch about it, think about it, work around it, accommodate it. It's been more than seven years since Dr. Roople broke it down for me at my first Neurology appointment. "You know what it is, don't you", she told me matter of factly. "It's Parkinson's Disease". "Well, DUH"!, I said. "I could have told you THAT"! So, it's only taken me the subsequent seven years to wrap my little brain around this obvious fact. But I still can't seem to think of myself as a guy with 'Parker Stevensons'. Not a shuffling old geezer, with a big ol' Peyton Manning shaking bobble head, chewing on his tongue and tripping over his own shadow. Not an old fossil who chokes on a sip of water and takes his meds with pudding. NO! I'm the devil-may-care, lovable, skatter-brained, stubborn, independent, rugged, renaissance man who definitely does not have any neurological problems. That's me! That's the Jacko I know.
Now ADHD. That is another thing entirely. I'm pretty sure I have always had that. But that's just me. That's not a disability or anything. Why that's my 'superpower'. It's helped me defy mind numbing boredom in the workplace, maintain energy to endure epic sleep deprivation on cross continental road trips, perform staggering feats of stupidity with no regard for possible consequences. Sure I forget to do stuff occasionally. Sure, the same pile of laundry has been piled on my bed for the last week. Sure , I don't have the ability to organize a decent pasta salad. But all in all, that's just how I roll. Always has been. Well, maybe if I applied the same idea to having the 'Particles' disease....
"Hey Rocky. Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat''.
It was about 1967. Or the late 60's sometime. I remember I was locked in the bathroom at my Auntie Mary Ann's house in Sharon MA. To be specific, I had intentionally locked my own self in the bathroom. I was standing there in front of the sink, tilting my head, stretching and craning my neck to get a good look at myself in the mirror. My right cheek was covered in bloody shaving cream. I was holding in my hand my Uncle JJ's old school silver metal Gillette 'safety razor'. You know, the old fashioned, dangerous looking kind with the double-edged blade. Bloody shaving goo was running down my arm. My poor Aunt was outside the bathroom, banging on the door and screaming for me to unlock it and let her in. I remember being out of breath, after having led her on a merry chase through the house. She was desperately trying to grab the razor from me. For some reason she felt that it presented a probable risk of facial disfigurement for me. I had always been fascinated with the mysterious old thing; an arcane, archaic and dangerous looking device. As an adult, they still give me the 'willies; the creepy 'razor sharpness' of them. Maybe I've seen too many slasher movies. In any case, back then I had often seen JJ shaving with it and thought, 'Hey, cool. I wanna be able to shave too'. Hey I was just a toddler...what did I know?
So I'm standing there, contemplating the smooth shave I was about to have, and fixin' to finish the job, when my Auntie, in a panic, kicks out the bottom panel of the old fashioned wooden door, reaches in, unlocks the door, and rushes in the bathroom to grab me before I could make another rake across my tender, hairless little face. Just as she rushes in to make the tackle, I dropped the Gillette. Like it was hot, as the kids say. Busted.
"Again"? That trick never works".
Hello, by the way. Hello,my name is Jack. I have ADHD. ('Hiiii Jack'!) Well, it is true. As a tyke, I had been to all the doctors. It was unanimous. Oh, they prescribed all the meds, though I never took them. They recommended all therapeutic interventions, though we never used them. Regardless, there was never any doubt. Mom knew. People all knew. Though no one ever told me, I must have known. On some level at least I knew. Not a lot was understood in those days about ADHD, as a diagnosis. But people recognized a snoggly-nosed, hyperactive little bastard when they saw one. Now, I never actually strove to go out there and make stupid decisions, or to have poorly advised impulses to do stupid things. Not consciously anyway. But it was my gift never-the-less. Even as a child I have always been able to block out that little inner voice that usually over-rides the amygdala's and the basal ganglia's sometimes very valid action plans for safe and appropriate behavior. This can often lead to all manner of adventures, or misadventures. Most of you kids out there, you HAVE a Plan A AND a Plan B in your repertoire. Whether you're consciously aware of it or not, you do. But for me, and other 'neuro-divergent' kids with ADHD, there is usually no back up plan 'B'. And, having limited ability to weed out behavioral impulses, we are more likely to get into situations where a high risk outcome is highly plausible. So sue me for admiring my uncle's clean shave.
"When there is no Plan B, Plan A is looking pretty Good".
I both blame my mother and simultaneously laude her for raising me the way she did. I'd even award her a summa cum laude in parenting, for putting up with me and my energy and impulsivity. As I previously alluded to, the doctors wanted her to give me the Ritalin to calm me down, but she declined. She didn't like the effects the pills might have had on me, and she felt it would be a failure on her part, as a parent, if she couldn't handle her own kid or any of his hyper behavior. Though I would never criticize her parenting skills. I think it's far too high a standard to think ANY parent could have kept up with the very high level of monkey-shines and happy-horseshit I could get up to in those days. But again, bless her heart, she gave it a hell of a shot. And as rough around the edges as I was, Mom would always try to disguise me to try to convince the general public, if not herself, that I was not a raving little lunatic. When taking me out in the community she would dress me up like a little Lord Fauntleroy. (BTW, do yourself a favor, right now, take a quick break and look up Little Lord Fauntleroy, a story about a little fancy boy who became heir to some throne. But the important part was that he was quite the little 'fancy dandy' boy). Mom would often take me out to swim lessons, grocery shopping, or even to church, lord love her, dressed up in little suit jackets, shiny buckle shoes, bow ties and knickers. Yes, you heard me. She made me wear knickers. I was quite the dandy. A real fancy boy alright. But alas, no pair of knickers or shoes were able to keep me fancy for long. To my mother's chagrin. I would eventually be covered in mud and blood and bruises.
For example, one fine sunny fall Sunday, my mother had taken me to church. I don't remember my Dad or my sister being there. I don't know how they got out of it. But in any case. Well, we go and praise our Lord and all, me all dressed up to impress our savior. Then after church, we stop by Mary Ann and JJ's house for a visit (again, my poor, long suffering aunt). We roll up, and I immediately bolt out of the car and race into the back yard. By the time my mom was able to get herself out of the car, I had her by about 3 steps. I had extra incentive and motivation, as it turned out. And do you know what that was?! Well---My Uncle JJ was out in the yard, raking leaves. Raking them into big piles. And you know what you do with big piles of leaves don't you? You JUMP into big piles of leaves. All well and good. But there was something that my mom knew, and that I did NOT know, and that my Uncle never consciously thought about. And that was that the big piles of leaves were BURNING LEAVES! That's right. Burning leaves. My Plan A- jump into the big pile of leaves! What fun! What kid wouldn't ? And for Plan B? There was no Plan B. So I went without delay with Plan A. Thankfully, though, I only had the jump on mom by a couple of steps, and by the time I had cannon-balled into the first smoldering pile, she was right behind me snatching me back out. Possible disaster averted. No major harm to me. Some minor damage to my little knickers outfit. Well, It seemed like a good idea in that moment....
"ADHD - Is a superpower that comes with its own Kryptonite''.
Every Yin has its Yang. Every rose has its thorn. Every action has its equal and opposite reaction. Your results may vary. ADHD may give a guy the creative, outside the box thinking to high dive into the lake late one night, possibly making him the life of the party. But it also may make him forget he'd had 17 drinks and will probably break his C-4 and C-5 vertebrae. So one must be careful, mustn't one? One would think. But, all factors considered, the ADHD has been more asset than liability over my lifetime. You know, with a few fantastically and near tragic exceptions (spoiler alert-I actually did break my C-4 and C-5 neck bones). I suppose I could try to apply the same way of thinking to my current experiences with the Parkinson's. I guess in a way, some of the things I complain about could, with a little optimism and creative thinking, could be thought of as assets. Superpowers? I'm not there yet.
But I am getting older anyway. (ya THINK Jack?!) Being super strong, super fast, or super creative is not really that important anyway these days. Now 'Super Patience' or 'Amazing Ability To Keep Things In Perspective' aren't the most exciting super powers. But I think I may be able to work with this concept. What the hell else have I got going, down here at the bottom of the stairs?
(Cue dramatic John Williams heroic musical score)
We find our hero,"The Crimson 'Park' Ranger, being vexed by the evil twin villains of 'muscle spasticity' and 'tardive dyskinesia'. Using his 'Super Patience', 'Powers of Perspective' and 'Super Safe Behavior', our 'haptically handicapped' hero thwarts his neurological nemeses and decides to ask Terrie for help making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Employing the 'Crimson Rays of Gratitude' he says thank you for the sandwich and tries not to be a dick about it.
Well, I can give it a try. We'll see. I'll keep you posted.
I thought you'd want to know.
And for Jesus' sake, stay hydrated.
"With gratitude, optimism is sustainable".
-Micheal J. Fox (damn nice, polite Canadian)
''Time flies like an arrow.
Fruit flies like bananas''.
-Townes van Zandt (cynical Texan).
''I'm looking for the joke with a microscope".
-Iggy Pop (Iggy F**** Pop)
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