Read Online Most of Me by Robyn Michele Levy - Free Book Online

more?”
    And since no one has turned down this offer, I roll my left shoulder to demonstrate its clunky cogwheel motion, then I rotate my left foot in circles until it seizes up. My repertoire of symptoms doesn’t end here—my voice has softened, my left arm doesn’t swing when I walk and tremors when I extend it, my entire body is rigid and stiff, and my movements are slow and strained—but since I don’t want to appear boastful, I keep the show and tell short and sweet.
    Once my friends overcome the initial shock, I explain what I know so far about this disease. Fifty percent or more of Parkinson’s patients suffer from clinical depression. There is nothing wrong with my muscles—the problem is in my brain, specifically a depletion of dopamine. There are drugs to help ease some of my physical symptoms, but for now I’m focusing on dealing with the emotional. I sheepishly admit I’m on antidepressants, and much to my surprise one friend reveals she is taking them too. Then another friend mentions that several of her close pals are also on them. It’s the same story with other friends, until pretty soon I realize that I’m just one glum soul among many. I find this both comforting and disconcerting—and I burst into ambivalent tears.

3
    Ladies in Waning
    T HESE DAYS , everyone is worried about me, even strangers—particularly impatient strangers at the grocery store, waiting in line behind me at the express checkout counter. Sometimes they are so worried that their eyeballs roll right out of their sockets as I slowly fumble through my purse to pay the clerk.
    I’m worried too. Unsettling thoughts of drooling, diapers, and wheelchairs loom large. And so does death (hopefully before diapers). But these fears seem rather futile to fret about now, considering I’m just in the early stage of Parkinson’s. This means I can focus my anxiety on concerns I face every day. For starters, there is my deteriorating walk, which I am very self-conscious about—particularly at the dog park. Let off leash, Nellie runs like the wind, as far away from me as possible. Then she conducts “canine crop circle” research, eventually marking the perfect celestial spot with a down-to-earth turd. Which I must find and dispose of, in front of everyone. I lumber awkwardly across the grass, dodging dogs chasing tennis balls and squeaky toys, my left leg dragging behind, my crooked left arm frozen at my side, torso tilting too far forward, right arm swinging back and forth, back and forth, like a doggie poop divining rod, searching . . . until I strike gold.
    My many other concerns are not as public. I’m having difficulty flossing my teeth, folding the laundry, chopping vegetables, vacuuming the floors, putting on my shoes, doing up zippers, typing on the keyboard. Little things only Bergen and Naomi notice when we’re at home. And while they don’t say it out loud, I know they both worry about me a lot. Most of the time I appreciate all this concern from everybody. But sometimes I find it difficult being the center of apprehension and long to escape the scrutiny.
    That’s where Nellie comes in handy. As far as I can tell, my dog hasn’t the foggiest idea that I have a degenerative brain disease—or that I have a brain to degenerate. In her eyes, I’m just this omnipresent creature she adores, who fills her food bowl, takes her for walks, picks up her poop, scratches her belly, and reluctantly removes sticks protruding from her bum—the very sticks I am always telling her not to eat. And while she isn’t the brightest dog in town, her ignorance often brings me bliss—rare moments when I forget that I have Parkinson’s and that people worry about me.
    WARNING : Habits may be habit forming. Habits may also be hilarious. Sometimes they can be both. Such as the habit I have of marching around inside my house, like a soldier in basic