In the Parkinson’s Garden: Ali, Michael J., and me

I am not sure what led me to consider writing a piece on humour and Parkinson’s Disease (PD.) On the surface, there does not seem to be much funny about Parkinson’s. I am not a particularly funny guy and I do not see myself as a humourist. My children may think I am funny (bless them) or more likely, that I have a weird sense of humour and that I am funny/strange (hey, in a good way.) Other than a few impromptu occasions when I played “Stanta” at the office Holiday lunch where I improvised a few in-house comments, I have avoided putting my mind to comedic endeavours. I do not write jokes, nor do I tell jokes particularly well. In fact, I barely remember any of the jokes I have heard over the past 60+ years and there have been tens of thousands of them.

Yet, here I am, sitting at the keyboard intent on writing about humour and Parkinson’s. Others have tackled this and done a far better job of it than I am likely to do (see Yuma Bev at Perhaps, I am being deluded by dementia often associated with PD or maybe I have a propensity to achieve failure. Am I rising to the level of my own incompetence? [Oops, I almost typed “incontinence” instead of “incompetence.” That may well seep into my blog at some point, but not quite yet.]

Undoubtedly, a sense of humour is both learned and inherited. My father had a wry sense of humour and there are others in the extended family (living and dead) that I consider to have somewhat quirky outlooks on life. I confess though that the humour of the latter never developed much after their demise, but interestingly, the richness of their life stories did. Funny that.

Before I go too far, I think it is important to distinguish between humour and comedy. At the risk of appearing a bit “researchy,” and you know that I try to avoid rigourous research in this blog as much as possible, (some of my professors have told me I tried to do that in my academic work as well,) it is sometimes necessary to interject some sociological order into all universes. Dick Gregory, renowned American comedian and civil rights activist, described humour as everyday situations that happened in everyday life and relayed to others in informal settings. By contrast, comedy was paid work where individuals were divided into audience and performer – and the performer better have his/her comedic timing down pat.  With that in mind, I think that I am contemplating humour as opposed to comedy in this piece. But I do have PD and may appear to be confused, even if I am not.  Please read on to find out for certain.

I do not remember my paternal grandmother (Maud) well but my most explicit memories of her are from my childhood and teen years. (For the record, she was every bit the horticulturist that my grandfather was and I shall explore her talents more in later posts.) She always seemed to be a stern, straight-laced person, not particularly the cuddly type. Maybe being the mother of five sons had something to do with that. Nevertheless, I knew her to have quite a soft side. She was not above pulling one’s leg with some exaggeration or story of life. But she had one serious downfall – when she was engaged in some tomfoolery, she had an undeniable twinkle in her eyes. You only had to look at her straight on to learn whether what she was saying or doing was fact or fiction.

Maud "Granny" Marshall

Maud “Granny” Marshall   Photo: unknown

I inherited that same trait and it has proved to be my downfall on many occasions as I tried to pull off some spoof or other, or even, dare I say it, lie about something. My maternal grandfather (“Grampa Bill”) also possessed a well-developed sense of humour with no ability to conceal it so I am doubly cursed with this weakness. Those who know this fact quickly find me out in any ploy.  Genetically speaking, both sides of the family ganged up on me – for humour at least, and who knows about the PD?

Personifying Dick Gregory’s juxtaposition of humour with comedy, Grampa Bill also established himself as a performer – not so much paid as rewarded – in various social settings such as Legion Halls and gatherings of army buddies. He maintained a constant patter of jokes coupled with a long playlist of old standards and comedic ditties played on an old squeezebox. I did not inherit this latter talent but can only surmise that some residual features of it still percolate through my personality from time to time.

My children have grown accustomed to my (often) sad attempts at humour although it does create some genuinely funny and absurd conversations where we riff off one another with bad puns and malapropisms.  It is particularly fun in this electronic age of text messaging. They speak openly in front of me, as if I am not present, of their personal concerns about having my sense of humour. I am afraid that they have good reason but at least they have some early warning.  My greatest wish is that they inherit my sense of humour such as it is … and not any genetic propensity for Parkinson’s.

Humour can be learned to an extent but it can’t be forced. If you have ever witnessed someone who is unfunny trying to be funny, you know that it must come from deep inside the genetic code. I can hear my ancestors as I start into a conversation that has some potential to be funny. Hmmm … psychosis and hallucinations (both visual and auditory) are routinely part of the lives of approximately 25% of PwP, usually later in the progress of the disease.  There are several potential triggers for hallucinations but these are best left to another time. This is an aspect of PD that has not visited me yet. I am not sure it ever will but I can’t say that I am looking forward to it if it does.  Still, I don’t think that retrieving sub-conscious memories of past relatives constitute hallucinations but … I shall have to be careful about what I say here ….

What I am about to write now would shock my grandmother and I doubt that there would be a twinkle in her eye – more likely she would have some sharp words uttered through pursed thin lips. Nevertheless, I shall charge ahead in some perceived need to edify myself about the fact that comedy and humour may take different forms even if the situation is essentially the same.

Consider the following scenario: you find yourself (assuming you are male) between Muhammad Ali and Michael J. Fox at the urinals at a baseball game. (If you are female, make any assumptions you wish.) By the way, I have taken the fundamental premise of this scenario from a real joke circulating on the Internet.

A comedian or comedy writer is likely the one who thought up this scenario and in its telling will add some quick repartee about having to be careful with all that shaking going on (Parkinson’s you know, wink, wink.) Regardless of how much beer or other liquid has been consumed by any of the parties involved, the interaction (and the joke) is over quickly.

Others will also have contemplated this scenario but will have presaged it with considerable verbiage around never having met Muhammad Ali and being disappointed that the only celebrity in sight at the game played in Los Angeles has been Michael J. Fox who was almost overlooked, as he was so short. The writer opines that he paid a bundle for the tickets because he wanted to see some celebrities. Late in the game he makes a trip to the bathroom and, lo and behold, he sees Muhammad Ali and is so overcome with excitement that he extends his hand to shake Ali’s while he is at the urinal. Of course this is a dodgy proposition at the best of times. The comic then clumsily mutters something about being glad he did not end up between Ali and Fox.  [shakey, Parkinson’s, yada yada.]  The joke ends up in essentially the same place.

However, let’s assume that you are a PwP and further assume that you have a sense of humour.  PD humour is largely self-deprecating and based on our personal, lived experience.  It transpires that you actually do end up, by pure happenstance, at the urinals in a real life situation between Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali. Wow! The humour is in the account of the meeting. After all, whom do you pretend not to glance at first? Add your own Parkinson’s shakiness into the equation and suddenly Ali and Fox have something to fear as well. Further, the fact that Muhammad Ali is 6 ft. 3 in. and Michael J. Fox is 5 ft. 4 in. provides all kinds of potential for quips about being drenched from head to toe, etc.  But what separates this PwP account of the meeting at the urinals from others is that it is experiential and the humour flows from that fact. There may well have been an exchange between Ali and Fox as they know one another; and you, yourself, may have participated in the exchange. The humour is in the telling of a true story, but with just enough embellishment to make the listener check to see if there is a twinkle in your eye … or not.

But there is nothing funny about Parkinson’s Disease, is there?  It is a disease to be feared and among the last words you ever want to hear from a neurologist are, “you have Parkinson’s.”  However, my neurologist did say to me recently, “you have six months left.”  It turned out that he was referring to how long my current prescription for L-dopa would last. I never really thought I only had six months left to live, but it was funny to hear it, as he said it. Why is that?

But what are you going to do, when life deals you a lousy hand? Oh you know, there are all the usual motivational sayings and/or lyrics from uplifting songs: “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” “Just pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again.” “Dig down deep and fight back.” They don’t really work for me.

I am not trying to downplay the importance of motivational and inspirational sayings, or soul-strengthening passages from the texts of various religions. They are important to each of us in how we face PD and its intractable march to destroy our brains and bodies. For me, humour has its own inspiration and is more than a coping mechanism; it is one of the essential ingredients for quality of life and survival.

I have great admiration for the Michael J Fox show and everyone involved with it. It is difficult to write Parkinson’s humor – too obvious and it appears that you are mocking those who have PD – too subtle and only those who know the details of Parkinson’s will get it. There is a need to strike a balance between the two.  As a PwP, I truly appreciate the subtle humour that makes me feel I am an “insider,” privy to information that only very few others have. But then again, I want some things to be really obvious, front and centre; to raise the profile of PD, providing education and awareness to the ravages of this very unfunny disease; to drive home the points that more research and funding is required to find a cure; to impress that economic, social and health policy need to be aligned to provide quality of life so that dignity is not the final victim of PD.

Do I think that the Michael J. Fox Show is the best comedy show on TV? No, but I do laugh out loud more than three times each week which is better than the bar I set for many other shows.

So, what if I met Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali in my garden? Ha!  That is a scenario even more unlikely than my meeting them at the urinals. But if I did meet them in my garden, we would hear Anne shrieking: “ Watch where you guys are treading! There are tender young seedlings under there you know!” I have heard this admonition many, many times as I lurch around the garden like Young Frankenstein when my meds are wearing off.  Intellectually, I know what is happening and I look down in a sort of “out of body” experience to see my feet heading wherever they feel like, while my mind is stepping as delicately as possible. I have come to enjoy “lurching”, at which I am getting ever better.  If you haven’t tried it, maybe you should. It is good exercise with those long strides that force you to concentrate to avoid pitching head over teakettle into the shrubbery.

The challenge of the garden wall   photo: S. Marshall

The challenge of the garden wall    Photo: S. Marshall

I often find myself focusing on the 8-inch garden wall in front of me as if I were about to attack the balance beam at an international gymnastics competition. If I can reach it without damaging some baby brown-eyed Susan’s, I will have exited the garden with minimal damage. Wait, don’t they grow like weeds anyway? Why am I so concerned about them? I tell myself to hell with the brown-eyed Susan’s – just get one foot on the wall and then step down to the path without gaining any extra momentum. If I lose the battle of agility to the one of speed, I will end up crossing the path, crashing through the Monarda (Marshall’s Delight no less) and pitching into the Rosa Rugosa. What follows will be the ignominy of a cross-examination as to why I smell vaguely of spicy herbal tea, have scratches all over my hands and arms, and rose petals in my hair.  

It is at this point that I call on “Brother John” (Anne’s brother) as a role model for balance success.  I am much indebted to Brother John for a classic image of him raising his arms in triumph as he executed a perfect landing, after launching himself from his sitting position on the couch to a standing position directly in front of the couch. With that portrait of success etched into my dopamine deprived brain, I initiate a long graceful stride to the wall and then a split second later, another one to the path with my arms high in the air in the victory position – the audience roaring its approval and the announcer shouting, “Wow!  He really stuck that landing.” I don’t believe it until I check myself for rose thorns and/or blood trickling down my bare arms.  

I do sometimes fantasize that Ali, Michael J. and I are in the garden. I am pretty sure this is a fantasy and not a hallucination.  The collateral damage would be considerable but it would be the best and probably funniest day of my life! Ali would be bobbing and weaving, playing rope-a-dope against the fence with his head just visible among the Joe Pye weed, Jerusalem Artichoke, and Rudbeckia quoting poetry: “… float like a butterfly and sting like a bee,” appropriate for any self respecting perennial garden. Michael J. would be channeling Alex Keaton, vainly waving his arms about in the shorter brown-eyed Susan’s and Echinacea to convince us that this waste of space could be put to better use as a condo development. Or perhaps MJF would provide a private re-enactment of Marty McFly and the famous guitar performance of “Johnny B Good” in Back to the Future, only this time from the “Gardens.”  In any case, seedlings and full-grown plants stand directly in harm’s path.


Is Ali bobbing and weaving with Joe Pye, Jerusalem Artichoke and Rudbeckia?  Photo: S. Marshall

Is Ali bobbing and weaving with Joe Pye among the Jerusalem Artichoke and Rudbeckia? Photo: S. Marshall

But back to reality. My response to Anne’s shrieks to step carefully is invariably the same, “if you want a gardener with PD to clean up this mess of weeds, you have to expect some collateral damage! I am not called The PD Gardener for nothing, you know.”  That, along with a well-timed diversionary question about the new peony in a bed I haven’t yet tramped across, usually buys me enough time to escape the scene of the carnage.

There is much more to be said about humour, gardens and Parkinson’s, and all the permutations and combinations cannot be addressed in one post. I was going to say “short post” but you would snicker at that characterization. I shall return in future ramblings to chat about the Parkinson’s world, from the inside out.

In the meantime, I have learned that gardens, for the most part, recover from unintentional Parkinson’s invasions. And the benefit to a PwP for having the opportunity “to trod” in such gardens is immeasurable. Any sacrifices the flora has made are returned more than a hundred fold to the maintenance of a healthy PwP outlook on life. I have also learned that finding humour in what we are and what we do is critical to understanding that, while not everything in life is what we would wish, when one is in the garden, alone or with loved ones and friends, life is damn near perfect.   

Maneuvering in this garden is a challenge!  Photo: S. Marshall

This garden would be perfect if I hadn’t stepped on the seedlings!   Photo: S. Marshall


Parkinson’s and the Gardener’s Shadow

Every year about this time, I begin to look out at the frozen tundra of our garden and wimper, “everything’s dead ….”


"Everything's dead ..." Photo: S. Marshall

“Everything’s dead … ” Photo: S. Marshall

But the magic always returns in the spring with snowdrops and crocus shoots emerging even before the snow and ice have fully receded. I marvel at the resilience of the flora that survives in the Ottawa Valley.  In the gardening parlance of plant hardiness zones, we are mostly in zone 3 but plants hardy to zone 4 and 5 often survive in specific microclimates. 

I don’t know why I am surprised, because I grew up in the even harsher climate of the Manitoba prairie where zone 2 would be the order of the day with some zone 3 locations.  And my family in The Pas, Manitoba and Humboldt, Saskatchewan (in sub-arctic zones) would snort at any suggestion that the Ottawa climate is “harsh” compared to what they live through.  Nevertheless, they do try to rationalize their choice to continue living in such a climate by citing the old saw that theirs is a “dry” cold, and therefore they are not really that cold.  However, anyway you slice it, the mean annual temperature of The Pas – 0.3 C (31.5 F) compared to Ottawa 6 C (42.8 F) tells the story.  Ottawa is cold and The Pas is damn cold – ‘nuff said.

It is small wonder that humans have spent considerable effort to overcome their environment by developing a variety of shelter options and energy uses to provide protection from the cold, and heat in other parts of the world. Of course, there is considerable evidence that we have not been effective stewards of planet earth in our efforts to protect the very environment we are protecting ourselves from, so to speak. I will not address that issue today but, rest assured, it will return to these pages in the future. It is too important to ignore.

There are many who would avow that nature should always be allowed to take her own course without human intervention.  Of course, this idea, unfettered and taken at its extreme, cannot be achieved. It would mean that humans could never intervene in the course of nature in order to better the human condition, or indeed to survive. Humans have always sought to “tame” nature, to “overcome” nature, to “improve upon” nature, to “protect” them from nature’s wrath as well as to “benefit” from nature’s bounty. 

There are countless theses and dissertations written in disciplines as varied as engineering, philosophy, environmental science, sociology, psychology, architecture, and literature to name but a few, exploring the relationship that humans have with nature. I don’t plan to engage in an academic exercise of outlining all of the issues and conducting some sort of meta-analysis by formulating hypotheses and reaching conclusions – believe me, I am as thankful for this as you are. My observations are, as usual, anecdotal and unscientific but hopefully thought provoking.  

It is important to understand that the gardener always will tinker in the garden and always will intervene to alter the course of nature, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. And sometimes just to show that we can. It was reported recently that a man in Chidham, West Sussex in the UK has successfully grafted 250 varieties of apples onto one tree over the course of some 24 years. Don’t believe me? Google it.  

Upon reading that account, I was reminded of my watching, as a young child, my paternal grandfather (Bob) grafting what seemed to me to be twigs onto various types of trees in his orchard.  He meticulously demonstrated how to prune the spear being grafted at a precise angle to be inserted into an incision in a branch of the receiving tree. It would be bound with twine or a piece of bark and covered with a type of rooting hormone and gum to cover the tender incision.  I am told he was successful in grafting more tender varieties of apples onto hardier rootstock and even produced some apricots in a climate not favourable to such tender fruits in southern Manitoba.

That is a fine memory indeed but do you know what I really remember?  I remember my grandfather’s hands as he manipulated his old pocketknife (sharpened on a foot powered treadle grinder in the farm shop) in a gentle but firm procedure. I remember his thick thumbs and fingers, seemingly incapable of such dexterity, being more than adequate to slip the young scion into the incision for the graft. Those fingers had often used that same pocketknife to cut a slice of apple, proffered to me with pride, from one of the many varieties grown in the orchard on his farm. And amazingly, even though Parkinson’s has diminished my sense of smell considerably, the crisp scent of that apple still tingles in my olfactory lobe. Tart and clean.

Not even sure what kind of apples these are.  Must get my pocket knife. Photo: S.Marshall

Not even sure what kind of apples these are. Must get my pocket knife. Photo: S.Marshall

But more than that, I remember those same thumbs and fingers on my father’s hands as he tended his flowers and vegetables in Manitoba and Saskatchewan. A short growing season, but loam rich soil and many hours of sunshine made for a fast transition from spring planting to fall harvest. Dad also had a pocketknife which he used to cut into various fruits and seeds in his efforts to provide an education on gardening (if not horticulture) to a mostly unreceptive teenager – me. I watched his hands grow old in the garden, in his workshop, and in his efforts to keep his mind sharp by filling out every crossword and Sudoku puzzle he could find, in pen. 

Today, I look down to see those same thumbs and fingers on my own hands as I deadhead spent flowers, root out troublesome weeds, and dig with an old spade to move, remove, or replace various perennials. But there is no pocketknife in my hands. The era of security checks at airports have diminished their numbers, although I am pretty sure that I have one or two tucked away in my ‘odds and sods’ drawers (yes, more than one drawer.) However, unlike my father’s or grandfather’s, my hands often shake and my fingers fumble to meet the task at hand. Parkinson’s is never far away if it is not immediately present.

But I am not disturbed by my inadequacies. Rather, I am heartened that I had the great fortune to witness those hands fly across three generations with a destiny to toil in a vocation (for my grandfather) and an avocation (for my father and me) to assist nature in creating beauty, joy and satisfaction.

Humans have long put their own stamp on ‘gardens,’ witness the many and varied formal and informal garden types neatly categorized within a nationalist typology: English, French, Japanese, Dutch, Korean, Spanish, Persian, Chinese, Italian, etc. All are created with plants and hardscape endemic to their namesake nations, if not to their immediate environs. But most have unmistakable human influences that, while artificial, are evidence of efforts to “improve” upon nature. I was reminded of this during a short walk we took recently in the Gatineau Hills north of Ottawa.

William Lyon Mackenzie King was Prime Minister of Canada for a remarkable 22 years in total during the years 1921 – 1948 and developed a country retreat at Kingsmere north of Ottawa in Quebec. He bequeathed that estate to the people of Canada and, among other things, the public is welcome to view his attempts at creating “ruins” on the property. He salvaged portions of buildings and landmarks being demolished in Ottawa and relocated them to Kingsmere. It is widely known that Mackenzie King was quirky to say the least, and some may think that these “ruins” are folly but most visitors would likely agree that they are creative enhancements to nature’s already established beauty.

Does this ruin the View? Photo: S. Marshall

Does this ruin the view? Photo: S. Marshall

Still, anyone who gardens knows that nature is not always beneficent and we sometimes intervene deliberately with the intention of altering the trajectory of a phenomenon that is harmful. On a very small scale, I am trying to root out some very invasive vinca minor (periwinkle) that is threatening to take over and choke an entire bed of hostas and other innocent victims. Periwinkle, in its place, is a very fine, hardy ground cover that can thrive in considerable shade and has a lovely, small flower (periwinkle of course.) Unchecked, it wants to take over the world.

Vinca minor (periwinkle) would like to take over the world. Photo: S. Marshall

Vinca minor (periwinkle) would like to take over the world. Photo: S. Marshall

Whether I like it or not, I have Parkinson’s Disease, a natural phenomenon with no known cure. It is neurologically invasive.  Many organizations are working diligently and relentlessly to fund and conduct scientific research to achieve a cure. Success would mean a monumental change in the course of history for millions of Persons with Parkinson’s (PwP) and their families, and for those who are at risk for Parkinson’s. I do not expect to benefit personally from this work. The time frame is too short; the disease is too advanced. No matter, it is critical to continue to pursue a cure. Scientists, Parkinson’s support groups, fundraising organizations, fundraisers, caregivers, family members of PwP, individuals and philanthropists are all in agreement that a cure is our primary goal. But there are at least three corollary ‘meantimes.’

In the first ‘meantime’, we continue to use the gold standard of levodopa along with an array of other pharmaceuticals to keep the disease in check and to help us remain upright in a never-ending struggle to defy the inevitable.  Chemical assistance works to a certain degree but there are long-term and short-term side effects, and drugs do wear off. 

In the second ‘meantime’ we pursue strategies to alter the functioning of the brain.  For example, Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS) is an invasive brain surgery that has brought relief to many PwP.  I am privileged to have met someone recently who had DBS although at the time of this writing he has yet to have the stimulus unit fine-tuned to its final settings. Nevertheless, it is a pleasure to witness the improvement in his tremor even without the full effect. It was also a pleasure to witness the genuine excitement and relief that he and his spouse exhibited throughout a lengthy process of being accepted, having the surgery, and in the immediate post-surgery period. I am confident that the next time we meet they will be wildly satisfied with the outcome.

There is also hope that a newer, less invasive ultrasound brain procedure will be as effective as DBS by focusing ultrasound waves on a specific part of the brain killing the cells causing the tremor. This procedure requires neither invasive surgery nor a general anesthetic and holds great promise to alleviate some symptoms and provide a much improved quality of life for PwP and their families. 

I am under no illusion that DBS or ultrasound is a “cure.” They are not. Some of the more problematic characteristics of Parkinson’s are decreased but not totally eliminated.  Most patients receiving the treatment still require drugs such as levodopa but usually in much reduced quantities. DBS or ultrasound is not for everyone. In my own case, I do have considerable tremour when the medication wears off but my major concern is cramping and pain in my legs and feet. I am not sure that these can be changed through these procedures.

Other research seeking to unlock the genetic code of PD is underway and may well lead to the discovery of ‘markers’ allowing for earlier identification and treatment. All scientific research must continue.

It would be an understatement to say that PwP, families and caregivers are praying that a cure can be found. Those of us in our mid-sixties or older know the likelihood of a cure within our lifetimes is exceedingly slim. Perhaps those with early onset Parkinson’s will see the development of a cure. Realistically, that would be my greatest wish and the best possible outcome.

In the third ‘meantime’, we must focus on other measures such as exercise to delay the progression of Parkinson’s and to alleviate some of its immediate effects.  The October 2013 World Parkinson’s Congress in Montreal brought together research scientists, physicians, PwP and their families, caregivers, therapists, health and social work professions, health policy analysts, fundraising organizations, advocates, and many others from around the world to inform, discuss, analyze and make recommendations.  I did not attend but followed the congress on various websites and Twitter postings.

At the time I did not know many PwP personally but still the excitement about the Congress was palpable, driven by a sense that all players in the Parkinson’s equation would meet on common ground to share critical information to make a quantum leap towards enhanced quality of life for PwP and their families, and a cure.

The concept of exercise – moving our bodies in some deliberate physical manner for at least 30 minutes each day – was pervasive at the Congress. It is beneficial to those facing a wide variety of physical and mental illnesses. Parkinson’s is one of those.  I am not fooling myself into thinking that exercise can cure any disease but it appears that its greatest benefit is to delay the progression of some of the most problematic symptoms e.g., rigidity, stiffness, slowing of gait, feelings of weakness, imbalance, etc.  As long as these can be delayed, changed, or improved, exercise is a good prescription. There is even a very good campaign in the UK to have physicians prescribe exercise as per guidance issued to the National Health Service by the UK National Institute of Health and Care Excellence. (See Exercise Works!

Exercise for PwP can take a wide variety of forms with walking, Nordic pole walking, cycling, running, x-country skiing, downhill skiing, snowshoeing, aerobic exercises, rowing, Pilates, yoga, dance, Tai Chi, and boxing being among the most popular.  The National Ballet School in Canada and the Mark Morris Dance Group for PD in New York have specific ballet and dance classes for PwP.  Each type of exercise has its adherents and specific selling points – cardiovascular, flexibility, balance, strength, concentration, etc.  Nevertheless, they are all in agreement, exercise is critical to physical and mental health in PD and to delaying the disease.  (Nevertheless, Anne and I do have a good chortle when we imagine me doing arabesques or pirouettes. Don’t underestimate the importance of laughter in the medicine cabinet.)

Rather than ballet, I have been developing a regimen of cardiovascular training using a NordicTrack machine, some light weight training with free weights, along with aggressive gardening (attacking weeds and invasive plants with vigour.)  Coupled with good nutrition and eating habits, I lost over 35 pounds since January 2013 and I feel better. Or at least I did until recently when I seem to have developed some issues with sciatica and/or right hip. My neurologist is clear it is not PD related so I continue to explore the problem with other doctors. This new development, while somewhat painful, has me very much frustrated that I am not able to continue my regular exercise routine. I take this frustration to be further anecdotal proof of the thesis that exercise is beneficial as it has a negative consequence when withdrawn. I am currently awaiting results from x-rays and will be seeking further medical attention in the coming weeks.  Stay tuned.  

You know, I have always thought that I was ‘progressive’ but I didn’t really want to have progressive aging along with a progressive neurodegenerative disease – both incurable by the way.  In any case, it is sometimes difficult to discern which symptoms are related to PD and which are just related to getting older. PD itself is a series of ups and downs, good days and bad days. Growing old just adds to the fun! Ain’t life just peachy that way?

I once told a student that he should always write something to signal that his paper has a conclusion, or is coming to a conclusion. His next paper succinctly intoned: “Here comes the end.” So, take heart, the end (of this post only!) is near.

Today, we have drifted perilously close to some heated philosophical debates about humans and nature without having ventured so near as to melt our wings. We will need those wings for other flights into the worlds of Parkinson’s and gardens, as they do meet regularly but mysteriously.

Just as every gardener casts a long shadow and a watchful eye over the garden in the belief that we can improve on nature, every person touched by Parkinson’s tries to cast a shadow over this hated disease to alter its natural course.

I leave you with these questions: Can humans partner with Nature on an equal basis to create beauty? Can humans win the struggle with Nature to eradicate the ugly?

The gardener's shadow is omnipresent. Photo: S. Marshall

The gardener’s shadow is omnipresent. Photo: S. Marshall