By Jim Hagarty
2005
I was half asleep, half awake and something suddenly began happening to my body that had never happened before. The big toe on my right foot began twisting uncontrollably and sharply to the left, then back again, then to the left again. This kept up for some time and it was an awful feeling in more ways than one.
My father suffered the ravages of Parkinson’s disease, a mysterious malady that strikes a person’s brain and muscles and eventually causes its victims difficulties in almost every area of their day-to-day lives. Some people move quickly to a stage where they are incapable of even dressing themselves and become dependent on a wheelchair. Facial muscles become rigid. Eyes can take on a tell-tale stare and sufferers are almost guaranteed to experience a depression that accompanies the sickness. They are not depressed because they are unhappy about being sick. They are depressed because of chemical imbalance in their brain.
But the most visible symptom of Parkinson’s disease is the trembling limbs: Hands, arms, legs, feet and even a person’s head develop tremors that at times are mild and at other times, during periods of increased stress, for example, very pronounced.
My father was one of the lucky ones with this disease. Though he shook and experienced all the other symptoms, he kept working as long as he could on the farm and needed a wheelchair in only the last few weeks of his life. I don’t remember him complaining much, but he occasionally did describe for his family what he was experiencing, as a way, I suppose, to help us understand.
When Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, the doctor advised him to retire immediately and sell his farm. He didn’t do that and though this is only my uneducated opinion, I think the challenge and work of the farm kept his symptoms at bay longer than might have otherwise been the case.
So, lying in bed with my toe twisting and twisting as I faded in and out of dreamland, I immediately jumped to some disturbing conclusions. Although Parkinson’s is not supposed to be a hereditary affliction, there seem to be no “nevers” in the medical world. I’ve always sort of wondered if this might be my fate.
How long will I be able to continue typing, the lifeline of my career? Maybe I could use voice-recognition software to write my stories and do my editing.
How will I tell my family the bad news, as I remember my father telling his?
How will I cope with all the terrible symptoms of Parkinson’s?
Disturbing thoughts, indeed, in the middle of the night, no matter whether they were coming from the dreamworld or the real one. My big toe kept lurching, lurching to the left. Everyone has the odd involuntary muscle spasm but this was really different. Not only did it twist, but a slight pain shot through it too.
It was time, I thought, to face the music and have a look at it.
I raised my head from my pillow and looked down toward the end of the bed. There, having maybe the best time in his life so far, was my young cat Luigi who was gnawing away at my toe like he was chewing on a chicken bone.
Two things were learned that night.
I learned I didn’t have Parkinson’s.
And Luigi learned how to fly.
