Parkinson's Disease. A right laugh.

The tricky third album.

Well that was a laugh at work today. I've been having dizzy spells for at least a year now. They are always short-lived, maybe ten seconds or so. I can usually shake myself out of them or at worst a sit down brings me back to what you humans call normality. They seem to be brought on by bright light or colours and very close proximity to others. The latter part may be accounted for by the fact that I am a night owl who loathes all human contact. I'm waffling again, you may have noticed. If you hadn't noticed then bloody concentrate!

Anyhoo, this afternoon I was ushering the deaf kids into the assembly hall with its vivid, white hot lights (see what I did there? Painting a picture with my words, effortlessly delving you deeper into the intrigue. I'm a veritable Jeffrey Archer). I turned round to realise I was nose to nose with a colleague. My eyes tried to refocus and before I knew it, my senses overloaded and my balance decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. Next thing; double vision, panic and a sense of heading south.

Now you've probably already noticed that I'm a smart cookie, although not such a smart cookie as to know what the fuck a smart cookie is. Well, this intelligent biscuit promptly sat on the nearest thing available to sit on. This being an assembly hall, the nearest thing to sit on was of course a stack of plastic chairs. Now, perched up on my plastic umpire's chair I thought, 'this is the longest dizzy spell I've ever had'. Round about this time I also thought, 'Fuck me, Mother Earth seems to be hurtling towards me at a vast rate of knots'. At which point the heroic, giver of life, Sharon from Year 6 whom I can only assume lived a former life as a nightclub bouncer, intercepted me and gently but firmly guided me out into the hallway. There, Sharon stayed with me, plying me with chocolate until my listening room chums arrived to help and take the piss (quite correctly) in equal measure. The well intentioned Jack suggested some water and shot off to the staffroom only to return a whole FIVE MINUTES later to innocently say, “Sorry, I got chatting.” It's a good job you're good looking Jack!

Ten minutes later, I was okay but no little afraid. Double vision, babbling and a sort of out of body experience. That sort of thing normally cost forty quid down my local pub, The Horse and Bastard. Actually, I don't have a local pub because I don't go out because I don't like human contact. Remember? Seriously, try to keep up. By the way, I have no idea what the assembly was about. Probably God. Or snooker.

So that's something else I can add to the ailments that PD (the disease that just keeps on giving) has blessed me with. So far, in isolation they all seem pretty surmountable but add them together and they reveal what a frigging evil bastard PD is. Please, if you are ever tempted to think, 'He's up and about, laughing. He appears as well as anyone else'. Please understand most of the symptoms are either unseen or often mistaken for something else. Stumbling gait, blurry words, seeming confused – oh he must be pissed (drunk, American friends). Forgetful, clumsy, lost for words – pull yourself together man! Admittedly, a lot of these symptoms are also connected with being a fucking idiot so for me it's harder to differentiate but you get the drift.

Two other hilarious gifts from the good Doctor Parkinson are pissing and depression. American friends, this time piss means to urinate. Pissed can be urinated, annoyed or drunk. We also take the piss (ridicule) or something is a piece of piss (easy). We ran an empire using such a diverse lexicon. Anyway, pissing. I won't bore you with the details other than to say, the other day a doctor said it is either a PD thing or a prostate thing. So, you never know, play my cards right and he just might be sticking his finger up.... I've said too much. Colleagues, if you walk a little faster past me in the corridor tomorrow, I'll know you have read this.

Depression. Well, that's a fucking laugh too. I was first diagnosed as a teenager in the nineteenth century. I've tried all the coping mechanisms and they often work but sometimes you can feel it creeping up and even the most innocuous words said by someone and bang, you're gone. I remember years ago reading about Spike Milligan locking himself in his room for weeks with it. That's me, but often doing family tasks with a Stepford Wives smile on. American friends, Stepford Wives is English for Stepford Wives). Some people hide their depression and anxiety behind humour. I fucking hate those people.

It's always there (PD) like a brooding shadow. Every now and then you panic at the thought of shaking for twenty years. The other night I was on Boy Wonder's bed and we were talking about my impaired right arm. He said, “Is that the one that shakes?” Well, fuck me, that was like being punched in the stomach. We have told him about PD but I didn't realise he had noticed that! I hardly had. It left me blowing hard for some time. Young people, kids are awesome but they break your heart in a beat.

You look for silver linings and there are plenty. I should be around to see Boy Wonder grow up to be England's first openly gay Premier League footballer. Or a welder, whatever. I'm also glad I have been diagnosed now and not twenty or thirty years ago. I was a nervous, self-pitying, serious little fucker back then. Its nice when people say I don't seem to be letting it get to me but the truth is I often forget I have it. I forget loads of stuff. When I dream, I still have a full head of hair so when I wake up I have have to go through the whole mourning process again. Cheers God.

Incidentally, God won't be appearing in this post because (a) he is busy putting an end to all the world's strife; hunger, poverty, Trump, Noel Edmonds and (b) he doesn't exist. (Although, for someone who doesn't exist, I don't half talk to him a lot. Bloody Catholicism).

By far and away the most fun to be had with PD is the stretching exercises. I have a neck exercise where I simply move my head 90 degrees to one side, pause for five seconds then full 180 degrees to the other, then repeat. Basically, like watching a really slow tennis match. The fun bit is to do it at meetings, football matches, the theatre etcetera and always wearing a sinister grin. Just when the person next to you feels uncomfortable enough to speak out, say to them, “I have to do this. I have a certificate.”

I'm off to play on the motorway.

Tara for a bit.

Norris

If any of you have been affected by the issues in this post,

get a fucking grip.

Parkinson's Disease. A Right Laugh.

Part 2; Parkinson is back and this time it's personal!

Hello my pretties.

The second blog. Gone are the heady days of the first blog when I was a young, naïve correspondent who's only goal was to search for the truth and uncover the corrupt. Now, I am a grizzled, cynical hack with a readership of upwards to twelve people; at least eight of which I am fairly certain are real.

To recap, I have started writing a blog to document how I am living with Parkinson's Disease since being diagnosed just over a year ago. I mentioned that I would describe what the effects have been so far. Not just the physical stuff but effects on family, work etcetera. So here goes – strap yourselves in. (If you are the sort of people who actually strap yourselves in, please make sure that your partner knows the safety word, you filthy animals). I digress. I do that a lot. My boss says I waffle but my wife is closer to the truth when she says I talk bollocks.

Anyhoo...When I was diagnosed, after the initial shock, I was actually quite relieved. Bits of me had been falling off for some time and the doctors didn't really have a clue what was happening. At my family surgery it is a bit of a lottery which doctor you get which means there is no consistency or continuity so it took an age before one doctor added up all the pieces and came up with PD. So, in the meantime I had gathered a comprehensive list of illnesses which had tested my work's patience and also give me a hefty inferiority complex. Those who know me will testify that it doesn't take a great deal for me to acquire an inferiority complex. I look forward to a day in the future when a well meaning doctor sits me down and says, “Well Mister Norris, we've had all the test results back and it turns out you haven't got Parkinson's, you're just inferior. Now run along.”

Financially, things are only fractionally harder at the moment. I now have a season ticket at the chemist – our benevolent government has decided my condition isn't severe enough to warrant any help. (You try fucking living with this pain for a week Theresa May). I have to pay more for travel and medical insurance but luckily I work in the public sector so I can only afford the one holiday each year. God bless this government of ours. (Do you see a pattern starting to emerge yet?) I am also the proud owner of an ergonomic chair, desk, laptop, mouse etc. The Parkinson's nurse referred me to a gym to do specific exercises every other day, so that's another £20 a month. All in all, I reckon we're probably between 50 to £100 worse off per month. Could be a lot worse though and I know lots of people are much worse off. Luckily I still have age on my side, good health (otherwise) and of course, my movie star good looks. Shut up. Besides, if things get tough further down the line, we can always sell Boy Wonder, as my wife has poo pooed my suggestion that I take a second career as a high class hooker.

The former Liverpool footballer and brilliant mind, Ian Rush said in his autobiography that living in Italy was “...like living in another country.” Well, quite Ian. I feel similarly about gyms. We don't belong in gyms. Okay, I don't belong in gyms. God (remember? The one I don't believe in from the first blog? Do try to keep up) has a sick sense of humour. First he gives me PD, then he tells me that to slow it down, I must do the one thing I loathe most – exercise. The first day I went, everyone else looked like something from a daytime TV advert; all muscles and lycra, Nike logos and tattoos, all shit and no brains. I turned up in a Charles Dickens tshirt and The Goon Show on my headphones. I have since made my peace with the gym. I have a playlist of the most uplifting tunes I have ever liked. The trouble is I was an indie kid so Echo and the Bunnymen is about as euphoric as it gets. I have had to ditch the Joy Division and Morrissey tunes as I'm already borderline suicidal when I enter the gymnasium of doom.

You may have noticed that for someone who doesn't believe in God, I talk about God quite a lot. Well, I was brought up a catholic and my Liverpool family and my wife's Manchester family are all left footers so I can hardly avoid it. To cap it all, eight year old Boy Wonder believes so each to their own. I do draw the line though when people try to offer me their prayers (it does happen). Please don't burden me with your prayers and please don't tell me God has a plan for me because if that plan involves my son having to watch me shake myself into an early grave, then he can shove his plan. Blimey, did I go a bit deep there? I'll try to water down the crystal meth next time.

Final word on our maker. He's seems to play the role of an imaginary friend for me. That might seem quaint or even uplifting. Let me tell you about my previous imaginary friend. I was about ten years old and his name was Andrew Pilley. He used to bully me. This is true. I even changed my route home from school to avoid him.

I've said too much.

Tara for a bit.

Norris

I was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease in December 2016 at the age of 47. After scraping my jaw off the neurologist's office floor, I went home, told the family and did next to nothing for a year. Actually, that's not true - I watched a lot of cricket. Eventually a few chums suggested I get off my gorgeous arse and write a blog about living with Parkinson's. I thought 'Yes, why should I have all the fun when I could share with you lovely people all the joys of painful rigidity, ever-diminishing motor skills, depression and shaking your way towards the peace and solitude of the cold, cold grave.

I live with my wife and eight year old son in a delightful suburb of London called Manchester. Although I am an uber-atheist, I am a catholic. Contradiction in terms? Nah, anybody brought up as a catholic will tell you that not believing in God need necessarily hinder your career in Catholicism. Anyhoo...after my diagnosis, the first thing I did was to make a deal with God (Yes, I know, the one I don't believe in). I basically said let me stay healthy, long enough to get my son through university. So, with a bit of luck my son, Boy Wonder will shun academia until he is a middle aged, mature student thus giving me another thirty or forty years. The perfect crime.

If I manage to get this blog up and running (it took me two hours and about 57 uses of the word fuck to set up the front page or whatever the fuck it is called and I still couldn't figure it out, then the wife looked over my shoulder, pressed a couple of keys and it all appeared. Ich bin ein Luddite) I will try to explain the implications of Parkinson's. Apart from the physical symptoms, there are all sorts of other crap to go through. Telling the wider family, the extra costs, a change of lifestyle, challenges at work and most importantly, managing what we tell Boy Wonder.

Boy Wonder.

Boy Wonder is my eight year old mini-me. I love him more than aeroplanes. He's the reason I'm writing this blog - not for any noble reasons. He came into this world around the time I joined Facebook. I thought I'd loathe Facebook and only used it to begin with as a Friends Reunited tool but I soon realised that it just what I needed. My FB page is basically me making shit jokes, me ranting about politics, me moaning about Everton's latest disaster (Sam Allardice for fuck's sake!) but the vast majority of it is Boy Wonder and my good self messing about, making crazy stuff and generally doing everything all you other parents do without thinking because you're not a self-absorbed prick like me. We have a strong family dynamic at Norris Towers. My wife, Sharon takes care of the essential, grown up side of family life such as paying bills, budgeting, making sure the mortgage is being paid etc. whilst I make Boy Wonder laugh. It's important to have a plan.

Unwittingly, I have made an electronic diary for Boy Wonder to look at in the future. We've probably all done this but just imagine what it would be like for your kids to be able to look back at the thousands of posts you have put on FB over the years. Actually you probably haven't put thousands of posts on FB because you probably have a life.

Incidentally, he isn't called Boy Wonder because of any of that comic book shite. A shiny penny to the first person who can tell me what indie band his name is lifted from.

You may have noticed that I've hardly mentioned Parkinson's disease yet. Well, this post is an introduction and for the first forty odd years of my life I didn't have it. Even now, it doesn't dominate my life (he lied). Don't expect this blog to be uplifting. This recent media campaign along the lines of "Cancer, I'm coming to get you" is very well intentioned with all the fundraising but not for me. I'll do all the exercises, take all the drugs but I'm not going to beat it. What I am going to do however is take the piss out of it.

Please give my blog a read and if you like sign up and show it to others. Please feel free to leave a comment. Until next time when hopefully I will have found an appropriate nickname for Parkinson's cos I'm already sick of typing it. I was thinking of something along the lines of 'Twatty, fuckpanted bollocks disease'. 

Tara for a bit.

Norris.