Nobody ever dies of Parkinson’s disease. You die with it. That’s one of Jock’s trite aphorisms. I can just see it on a bumper sticker because it’s only half as ridiculous as “Guns don’t kill people, people do.”
I spend a week convincing myself that I don’t have this disease and then Jock clouts me around the head and tells me to wake up and smell the flowers.
My reaction normally comes under the heading “Why me?,” but after meeting Malcolm on the roof of the Marsden I feel rather chastened. His disease is bigger than mine.
I began to realize something was wrong about fifteen months ago. The main thing was the tiredness. Some days it was like walking through mud. I still played tennis twice a week and coached Charlie’s soccer team. But then I started to find that the ball didn’t go where I’d intended it to anymore and if I took off suddenly, I tripped over my own feet. Charlie thought I was clowning around. Julianne thought I was getting lazy. I blamed turning forty.
In hindsight I can see that the signs were there. My handwriting had become even more cramped and buttonholes had become obstacles. Sometimes I had difficulty getting out of a chair and when I walked down stairs I held on to the handrails.
Then came our annual pilgrimage to Wales for my father’s seventieth birthday. I took Charlie walking on Great Ormes Head, overlooking Penrhyn Bay. At first we could see Puffin Island in the distance, until an Atlantic storm rolled in, swallowing it like a gigantic white whale. Bent against the wind, we watched the waves crashing over rocks and felt the sting of the spray. Charlie said to me, “Dad, why aren’t you swinging your left arm?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your arm. It’s just sort of hanging there.”
Sure enough, it was flopping uselessly by my side.
By the next morning my arm seemed to be OK. I didn’t say anything to Julianne and certainly not my parents. My father— a man awaiting the summons to be God’s personal physician— would have castigated me for being a hypochondriac and made fun of me in front of Charlie. He has never forgiven me for giving up medicine to study behavioral science and psychology.
Privately, my imagination was running wild. I had visions of brain tumors and blood clots. What if I’d had a minor stroke? Was a major one coming? I almost convinced myself that I had pains in my chest.
It was another year before I went to see Jock. By then he too had noticed something was wrong and was watching me more closely.
There are no diagnostic tests for Parkinson’s. An experienced neurologist relies on observation, looking for the tremors, stiffness, impaired balance and slowness of movement. The disease is chronic and progressive. It is not contagious, nor is it usually inherited. There are lots of theories. Some scientists blame free radicals reacting with neighboring molecules and causing damage to tissue. Others blame pesticides or some other pollutant in the food chain. Genetic factors haven’t been entirely ruled out either.
The truth is, it could be a combination of all— or none— of these things.
Perhaps I should be grateful. In my experience of doctors (and I grew up with one) the only time they give you a clear, unequivocal diagnosis is if you’re standing in the surgery with, say, a glue gun stuck to your head.
7
On the walk home across Regent’s Park, I cross Primrose Hill Bridge and peer over the side at the canal. A lone narrow boat is moored against the towpath and mist curls from the water like wisps of smoke.
Catherine’s body was found beside the Grand Union Canal about three miles from here. I watched the TV news last night and listened to the radio this morning. There was no mention of her murder. I know it’s just morbid curiosity, yet a part of me feels as though I’m a part of it now.
A soft rain slips down and clings to my jacket as I start walking again. The Post Office Tower is etched against the darkening sky. It is one of those landmarks that allows people to navigate a city. Streets will disappear into dead ends or twist and turn without reason, but the tower rises above the eccentricities of urban planning.
I like this view of London. It still looks quite majestic. It’s only when you get close up that you see the decay. But then again, I guess you could say the same about me.
In real estate terms we live in purgatory. I say this because we haven’t quite reached the leafy nirvana of Primrose Hill; yet we’ve climbed out of the graffiti-stained, metal-shuttered shit hole that is the southern end of Camden Town.
The mortgage is huge and the plumbing is dodgy, but Julianne fell in love with the place. I have to admit that I did too. In the summer, if the breeze is blowing in the right direction and the windows are open, we can hear the sound of lions and hyenas at London Zoo. It’s like being on safari without the minivans.
Julianne teaches Spanish to an adult education class on Wednesday evenings. Charlie is sleeping over at her best friend’s house. I have the place to myself, which is normally OK. I reheat some soup in the microwave and tear a French loaf in half. Charlie has written a poem on the white board, next to the ingredients for banana bread. I feel a tiny flicker of loneliness. I want them both here. I miss the noise, the banter.
Wandering upstairs, I move from room to room checking on the “work in progress.” Paint pots are lined up on the windowsill and the floors are covered in old sheets that look like Jackson Pollock canvases. One of the bedrooms has become a storeroom for boxes, rugs and bits of cat-scratched furniture. Charlie’s old pram and high chair are in the corner, awaiting further instructions. And her baby clothes are sealed in plastic tubs with neat labels.
For six years we’ve been trying for another baby. So far the score stands at two miscarriages and innumerable tears. I don’t want to go on— not now— but Julianne is still popping vitamin pills, studying urine samples and taking temperature readings. Our lovemaking is like a scientific experiment with everything aimed at the optimum moment of ovulation.
When I point this out to her she promises to jump my bones regularly and spontaneously as soon as we have another baby.
“You won’t regret a single moment when it happens.”
“I know.”
“We owe it to Charlie.”
“Yes.”
I want to give her all the “what ifs,” but can’t bring myself to do it. What if this disease accelerates? What if there is a genetic link? What if I can’t hold my own child? I’m not being mawkish and self-obsessed. I’m being practical.
A cup of tea and a couple of biscuits aren’t going to fix this problem. This disease is like a distant train, hurtling through the darkness toward us. It might seem like a long way off, but it’s coming.
Julianne has left the day’s mail on my desk in the study. Anything addressed to us both has already been opened. She’s paid the bills and replied to the Christmas cards. Anything inviting us to get into greater debt is filed in the wastebasket.
At the bottom of the pile is a small square envelope made from recycled paper. The edges are discolored and worn. Slicing open the top I find a single page with a floral design on the border. I don’t recognize the handwriting. Within a few lines, I realize that the letter is for someone else. I check the envelope again. My name. My address. It’s a love letter, of sorts, written by someone called Florence to someone with my initials.
Dear J.O.,
I know you said not to write but I’m afraid of seeing you or speaking to you. I’m afraid you might reject me again and I couldn’t bear it.