My latest Parkinson’s escapade? A solo trip to town, naturally. I envisioned myself, a vision of caffeinated grace, gliding through shops, a whirlwind of retail therapy. Oh, how naive I was. Turns out, the town has opinions about my particular brand of parkinsonian swagger.
First stop, the bank. The automatic doors welcomed the person in front of me like a long-lost relative. Me? They treated me like a suspicious package. A slow, juddering shuffle later, I bounced off the cash machine and, in a move that would make a gymnast weep with envy, landed squarely in a chair by the cashier’s window. “Nailed it,” I thought, only to realize I’d just pole-vaulted over two perfectly healthy queue-standers, earning me the “you cut in line, you monster” glare.
Then, the meds decided to take a vacation. They were in my bag, of course, which was now five yards away, having staged a dramatic escape from my shoulder during my grand entrance. Meanwhile, my body had decided to audition for Cirque du Soleil, contorting itself on a bank chair clearly designed by Torquemada’s less-talented nephew. My dopamine levels plummeted faster than a politician’s approval rating, and I heard the echo of “NEXT! NEXT!” from the cashier’s desk, another five yards distant.
This cashier, clearly trained in battlefield medicine at the local GP’s office, beckoned me with the warmth of a tax audit. “I have Parkinson’s!” I bellowed, at which point the queue parted like the Red Sea, probably expecting locusts.
Finally, a manager in what I can only assume was a hazmat suit approached, cautiously retrieved my bag, and watched me down my meds like I was defusing a bomb. Then, the cherry on top: “Early closing!” I was gently ushered out the door, another day in the life of Parky Bear.
