The Cure

8/18/99

The Cure

There had to be a plan...something definite to do each day....something to take the old man's mind off of his situation. He has been living..if any one dare call it that.... for the last 10 years with PD and was tired off the constant grind that people suffering from PD know so well. Laundry, shopping, and cleaning were possible only when his meds were working. Television and radio filled the time when they weren't.

The medication he had taken all these years was "his friend" and only lately had become "his enemy" as well....twisting his body and clenching his muscles in a spasmodic frenzy. It was no surprise that he didn't venture out much. When he did, he was aware off how he looked to others (he'd seen his reflection many times shuffling or stumbling in store windows and he hated the sight).

He was surprised by the sudden knocking at his front door. He stumbled across the room and unlocked the door. A young woman stood there with a package and a clipboard which she passed to him for his signature. He leaned against the door frame to keep from falling as he scrawled something illegible on the paper. The delivery person handed him the package and left. The man set it on the end-table nearby and shut and locked the door. He sat down in his favorite chair and unwrapped the package while his meds were working (somewhat).

It finally arrived! This one had the most promise of all and his body shook and twisted as he took it from the box and began to look for any instructions. He had seen many different "supposed" cures for PD touted in the past and had never felt comfortable trying it until an old friend tried this one just two weeks ago. Where was his memory?...he remembered that his friend had written out specific instructions. He opened a drawer nearby and took out a folded paper and began to read and to fool with his package as the afternoon wore on.

He must have dozed off, he thought, as he gazed out his windows at the darkening sky. "Way overdue for my medicine", he said to himself, reaching his trembling hand out toward the bottle on the table. Then, seeing his new "miracle cure" on the table beside them, he reached for it instead but hesitated. Will this one really be "the one"? Will it mimic PD surgery results, freeing him from tremor and dyskinesia? He'd been living so long with this disease that the thought of any other life than this eluded him.

As he reached across to retrieve it, his tremors increased as he mumbled under his breath "Please, God, let this one work". His efforts proved futile as his shaking hand knocked it off the table onto the floor. He sat trembling and cursing for a full minute trying to decide what to do.

Finally, the old man reached for his meds and took them, letting them melt on his tongue, awaiting the agony and the ecstasy of their daily performance. Almost half an hour later, the old man got up from the chair stretching his body and said to his empty house "Well, there's always tomorrow" as he turned off the lights and shuffled down the hallway to brush his teeth. He would pick the pistol up off the floor tomorrow when he had more energy.



		8/18/99 The Cure There had to be a plan...something definite to do each day....something to take the old man's mind off of his situation. He has been living..if any one dare call it that.... for the last 10 years with PD and was tired off the constant grind that people suffering from PD know so well. Laundry, shopping, and cleaning were possible only when his meds were working. Television and radio filled the time when they weren't. The medication he had taken all these years was "his friend" and only lately had become "his enemy" as well....twisting his body and clenching his muscles in a spasmodic frenzy. It was no surprise that he didn't venture out much. When he did, he was aware off how he looked to others (he'd seen his reflection many times shuffling or stumbling in store windows and he hated the sight). He was surprised by the sudden knocking at his front door. He stumbled across the room and unlocked the door. A young woman stood there with a package and a clipboard which she passed to him for his signature. He leaned against the door frame to keep from falling as he scrawled something illegible on the paper. The delivery person handed him the package and left. The man set it on the end-table nearby and shut and locked the door. He sat down in his favorite chair and unwrapped the package while his meds were working (somewhat). It finally arrived! This one had the most promise of all and his body shook and twisted as he took it from the box and began to look for any instructions. He had seen many different "supposed" cures for PD touted in the past and had never felt comfortable trying it until an old friend tried this one just two weeks ago. Where was his memory?...he remembered that his friend had written out specific instructions. He opened a drawer nearby and took out a folded paper and began to read and to fool with his package as the afternoon wore on. He must have dozed off, he thought, as he gazed out his windows at the darkening sky. "Way overdue for my medicine", he said to himself, reaching his trembling hand out toward the bottle on the table. Then, seeing his new "miracle cure" on the table beside them, he reached for it instead but hesitated. Will this one really be "the one"? Will it mimic PD surgery results, freeing him from tremor and dyskinesia? He'd been living so long with this disease that the thought of any other life than this eluded him. As he reached across to retrieve it, his tremors increased as he mumbled under his breath "Please, God, let this one work". His efforts proved futile as his shaking hand knocked it off the table onto the floor. He sat trembling and cursing for a full minute trying to decide what to do. Finally, the old man reached for his meds and took them, letting them melt on his tongue, awaiting the agony and the ecstasy of their daily performance. Almost half an hour later, the old man got up from the chair stretching his body and said to his empty house "Well, there's always tomorrow" as he turned off the lights and shuffled down the hallway to brush his teeth. He would pick the pistol up off the floor tomorrow when he had more energy.