- So I'm gonna read a
poem about what it's like
to have Parkinson's so
that you can all experience
the same thing that I do.
All you need to know is that I live
north of the city and my
doctors are all in the city
so when I come to see a doctor
I ride the Metro North train
down along the Hudson River,
and I look at the river
and I write my poetry.
A brisk fall day, a wintry day,
I ride the train beside the river,
look outside and see the mist,
which hangs like gauze and blocks the view
of Jersey's cliffs and trees and rocks.
I'm on my way to see some doctors.
One will snip the stitches, six,
which she had sewn two weeks ago
to close a cyst excision.
The cyst was big.
How big? Well, just envision
some great bloody human eyeball
and you'll get the picture.
If you picture pools of stinky slime
the white orb sat upon.
I had that cyst for
years and now it's gone.
The other doc will check my hacking lungs.
I'm coughing almost nightly.
I'm not young.
I'm overworked and overstressed
and yet I still try to get all I can get.
I don't sleep enough, work out enough,
my diet could be better,
but it's tough to lead a fast-paced life,
do what you want, keep up on news,
try all that's au courant.
On top of that my Parkinson's disease
just mucks my mind up,
puts me ill at ease.
Puts me on this train so many times,
pushes me to put down many rhymes.
Poetry that springs from inner doubt,
doubt how long I'll walk
about without support,
how long I still can function,
accept invites to some
neighbor's luncheon.
Climb the stairs at
home while holding still
a brimming cup of coffee I don't spill.
Dress myself while standing on both legs.
Express myself precisely, not sound vague,
not talk with halting
stagger stammer speech,
stuck mid-sentence, words now out of reach
of my now frozen mind.
And furthermore, I'm scared of choking.
Every time I pour a tall,
cool glass of water,
I'm afraid the water will
explode like a grenade
back in my throat because
my epiglottis fails
to close the trachea.
What? This process swallowing,
which used to flow like liquid silk,
is now more like a death blow
as my eyes spurt tears and mouth expels
the fluid that I need to drink
to dwell on Earth like everybody else.
It's morbid.
Drinking now is like being waterboarded.
When things get really
bad, my mind gets worse.
Forget me putting down some rhyming verse.
Instead I ponder, how can I go on?
Sleep fitfully, get up before the dawn,
slog to work, and put in many hours,
get anxious due to my declining powers.
Oh yes, I wonder, how can I go on?
The answer is I'm driven by the urge
to do things that forestall
the creeping scourge
of Parkinson's.
Like writing this long poem,
which I composed while traveling from home
on a train en route to see some doc.
My current calendar is chock-a-block
with medical appointments.
I am delighted when I ride the train,
ideas ignited in my brain,
what joy.
And then there's this.
I work out at the gym and feel bliss.
My weekly ping-pong lesson
forces all of my attention
on a spinning ball that I
hit with a slanted "pock!"
And "pock!", it spins back, "pock!"
My mind's thus not gridlocked.
And open water distant swims
have banished depressing thoughts.
Anxieties too vanish when I push myself
at something that I revel in.
Living tit for tat with
this incurable disease,
I find I have the upper
hand and that my mind,
while losing dopamine, still works fine
at cooking tasty meals when I dine.
Still works fine when
reading books at night
before I go to sleep,
and when I write a blog
post, story, poem, or email,
I'm often pleased as punch because I nail
exactly what I wanted to inscribe.
A sonnet, say, a blog post diatribe.
The urge to do things that
I revel in was always there,
before my Parkinson's wreaked havoc
on my brain, my leg, my arm.
It's source, a cosmic force which,
like a charm, spurs all
humanity to forge ahead.
Climb a mountain, maybe bake some bread.
Paint a picture, join a local band,
volunteer to lend a helping hand
when hurricanes or earthquakes devastate
some portion of the Earth,
or just create a quiet space
where people much like you
can gather in companionship
in lieu of fuming solo
at the constant friction of politicians
claiming facts are fiction.
The urge to do things helps me
counteract the ravage of PD.
Now that's a fact.
But don't forget that bladder urgency
can be a five alarm emergency.
Pock!
