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