I entered the waiting room and immediately surveyed the area. What is the damage. . .I could feel my heart starting to quicken. “I hate crowds,” I mumbled to myself. I identified the area I would least likely be noticed. I could barely move my constricted legs as the intensity of the tremor increased. I anxiously counted how many people were in the waiting room. I felt sweaty. . .no, no, that isn’t what i’m feeling. . .more like cold sweaty/clammy. I can control it, if I just sit here. . .
Control…a mirage to a Parkinson’s patient, achievable through little pills, a state of mind, a reality of the progression of fear that one day your identity will be largely shaped by a physical disability. A disability that overshadows the fact that it’s still me inside. Hello, anyone out there?