It’s quite a weird kind of disease, I find. Although of course I can’t really compare it, thank God, to any other serious ailment as this YOPD is certainly – so far – the biggest curve ball I’ve been thrown, and yes I’m including my erstwhile hypo-mania/Bipolar disorder/poetic idiosyncrasies*.
And it’s so peculiar that after how many years is it now? – even the most renowned experts seem only to be able to offer advice of the trial and error, and ‘see how you go’ variety.
The only genuinely helpful medication (but only in terms of slowing down the runaway train that is PD) dates back to the 50s, while there’s still no conclusive cause (gut flora? used too much weedkiller as a child gardener? oh and now the marvellously vague concept of ‘trauma’).
Yet at some reassuringly mundane level you somehow sort of get used to it. Because, well, you have no alternative.
Having said that, it will always remain a Stockholm Syndrome kind of rapport, a tense North/South Korean border standoff (but without the laughs) kind of feeling or something along the lines of Nietzsche’s description of the ominous presence lurking in the abyss staring back at y’all.
I know right? How cool are these guys? Occupational therapy’s Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men.
It’s only when you feel obliged to tell someone new, either a civilian who’s known you for a while but who hadn’t yet got the memo, or just a caring bystander that this is your lot in life, that you yourself are once more reminded of the calibre of this foe when you take in the look of shock and awe on their faces.
Lately, I’ve indeed been struck by the notion that for now, perhaps all we can hope for is to keep coming up with new and ever more sly ways of outfoxing (pun thoroughly intended) that Bloody Mr Parkinson’s.
* Select according to personal preference and/or the current DSM revisionist mood of the time when reading these humble musings