20210113 MISSING THE BLACK ARMBAND
==================================
I have a medical alert band on my wrist. It's for my Parkinson's.
Parkinson's you say. Why have a band? It's not like you have
diabetes or are allergic to bee stings. To be honest, I used to
think the same thing. Sometimes you have to be inside the beast
before you can strike a light and discover how truly in the dark
you've been.
Why the wristband?
Because when the dopamine wears off, my speech is often slurred
and I'm unsteady on my feet. More than a few folks with
Parkinson's have been treated like drunks by their fellows or the
police. I fully understand why they make that mistake. When you
add the mental confusion that often plagues those dealing with
Parksinson's Disease, it sure seems like the person just might be
tipsy.
Unfortunately, adjusting for dopamine dose-effects is not an exact
science. Many things affect how well the dopamine is absorbed and
used. Everyone is different and they respond to both the disease
and the drug in a variety of ways. Even the same person will
respond differently at different times of the day and days of the
week.
I am rediscovering that this is true of other aspects of our lives
as well. We just lost Mum after losing Dad a few years ago. (Oscar
Wilde quips accepted--humour helps.) Her death was not unexpected.
Still, it is stark. My daughter was able to speak with her a
couple of hours before Mum passed. I think they both knew the end
was near. Mum was at peace.
But, I am not. I have too many questions left. I keep thinking, "I
must ask Mum about that." She was our last tie to the passed (no,
I don't mean past) generations. I've now watched three of them
shuffle off this mortal coil. I am well aware that the cord is now
wrapped tightly around my ankle and that I am edging ever forward
towards the cliff face myself.
Mixing the metaphor again, the thread may be severed any time.
What I miss is the black armband that we wore ubiquitously in my
youth. It seems that we only wear them now for famous strangers or
after disasters. It would be nice for people to realise that I am
not seeking to be rude when I don't respond. Sometimes I can't
talk as tears threaten and my throat tightens in warning.
If I lose my balance, or I'm acting rum for a time, just give me
some space. That's what the black band once declared. It's as if
I'm wading through molasses, so don't mind me. Just let me be
nearby. I'll be fine. Sometime. But, not just now.
