7/5/97 "Try to Remember... That Time In November..." As anyone with PD knows, some of the saddest stories are our own (and not others). It seems to me that we're all tragic heroes that are putting on long and drawn-out daily performances. The following is one of the most bizarre evenings I ever experienced. A friend had tickets to a concert at the Warfield Theater in S.F. for an evening musical performance back in mid-November '96. The thought of going out in public late at night with lots of sounds and activity around me, of course, made me anxious. I wasn't getting out much because driving in the evening when I no longer HAD to be "on" was too tough. This friend wanted to get there early to set up some recording equipment so we left an hour early (for what my bladder had been told was a one-hour trip ... this bladder was so fragile lately, it seemed). We hit bumper-to-bumper traffic about 5 miles outside of the city and as we plugged along, I tried not to think about anything to do with liquids or bathrooms (I was trying in earnest to distract my bladder). We made it to the concert, found a parking place, and proceeded inside with our Guest Passes in hand. My first question (if you haven't guessed by now) was "Where's the Men's Room?". They pointed up some long stairs at the end of the hallway. I'd been waiting for my Sinemet to kick in but I was aware that other factors (stress and worry primarily) were thwarting that effect. I'd been wearing shorts and T-shirts year-round for over two years because zippers, buttons, and snaps mocked my futile efforts and "when you gotta go...". I made it to a standup urinal and was almost home-free. To my horror, I wasn't "on" enough to put my fingers under the waistband of my shorts to tug them down with either hand and so, I proceeded to empty my bladder within the confines of my shorts. This was by far the worst-case scenario for me and I felt like crying. I stumbled to a stall where there was a monster paper-dispenser and I tried in vain to tug off some sheets but the dispenser wouldn't roll easily in my "waiting to switch on" state. As I left the stall with no success, I lost my balance and stumbled against the wall. It was still an hour before the concert and the crowds hadn't arrived but minutes later, another guy entered the room and stood at a wall-urinal. I needed help blotting up my pee-soaked shorts but knew it wouldn't be easy for me to comfortably ask for this kind of help (plus, it seemed odd to me to ask for help of any kind in a Men's Room in San Francisco). My voice was weak and I felt I was half-mumbling as I addressed this person. I said "Can you help me? I have Parkinson's Disease and I just peed all over myself" (I had resolved the issue of requesting assistance fairly quickly ..... having given up hope that the Starship Enterprise would "beam me up"). This Good Samaritan helped me by getting toilet-tissue and paper-towels and I feebly blotted at my shorts while trying not to dwell on the idea that "I can no longer go out in public at night; it's too unpredictable for me to depend on the Sinemet to work properly. I went to where my friend was and fell into a chair as I tried to hide my stained shorts. I told him what happened and he went to get more paper towels to hide my condition until the lights went down. ...... I guess it was a good concert; I finally was "on" enough to walk around some. I remember trying to hide my shorts at the intermission and blotting and fanning, it seemed, the rest of the time. And thinking it couldn't be worse than this (oh, but it does, David). I resolved that evening concerts in the City were no longer an option for me. I remember thinking on the way back north: "Only the process of seeing what a "fighter" each of us is determines when we can decide to let some things go as the disease progresses and our acceptance hopefully grows in response."