Keepin’My Walker In The Fast Lane And My Babies on the Sidewalk

My friend, if you have Parkinson's, I can guarantee that you will  experience many more of life's oft-stated inevitables than simply death and taxes. For starters, I can assure you that someday your Neurologist will look you squarely in the eyes and say, “We’d like to do some seismic testing on your noggin -Game??”  I suggest you inquire if they offer the slightly more patient-friendly DBA (Deep Brain Agitation) option instead (or if you are into medical jargon-"DBS Lite"). In this bleeding-edge procedure, they mess around in the brain, but exit without leaving behind any pesky hardware.

Secondly, one day I can assure you that your partner will catch you “faking” (exaggerating) your Parkinsons symptoms likely to avoid an unpleasant event - like attending your partner’s staff Xmas party. “Rather spend an evening at Abu Ghraib,” you say to yourself. If the following sounds like a lecture - that’s because it is. Your credibility as a neurodegenerate is like your reputation -  it is everything. Are you willing to trade it for yet  another evening behind the keyboard?

Thirdly, either you, your insurance plan, or your health spending account will put out an absurd amount of money for a few   4” wheels and a metal frame -- yes, you will get a walker. For many, the walker represents one of the most powerful symbols of weakness that we have. Yes, your life (at least how others view it) will never be the same. Again.

There is nothing inherently wrong with the walker, as it is a rather simple device with four wheels and a frame. However the walker is in need of a significant image overhaul.   My dream walker would look nothing like your Dad’s walker. Mine would look like it belonged more on a construction site and there might be signs everywhere saying:“Protect your subthathalamic nucleus - WEAR A HARDHAT when using your walker”. Mine would be handcrafted by a big burly fellow like Mike Holmes, the construction guy on TV. It would ooze stainless steel,  carbon fibre , and as much tech as we could fit on board.

My team's marketing ads would be of  Super Bowl-quality, containing pickup truck commercial-levels  of testosterone. We’d hire a Malboro-looking kind of guy to be our poster boy. Clint must be close to needing a walker by now. And by golly we’d get the walkers  out of the funny-smelling home-medical supply stores. Nothing dulls  a Manly-man’s spendy wendiness more than seeing the product of his dreams displayed in  between bed-wetting sheets and toilet risers . We’d sell them at Home Depot, placing them between the 24-volt drills and the Milwaukee  nail guns.

And yes, while "Nexen" would seem to be an adequate name, for my steed, we would like to give the boys choices. The fellas that have accepted their condition would likely be content with our bread and butter intro model, the "Neurodegenerator". Others might want to have a name that reflects the trials and tribulations they have gone through - maybe the "Sub-Thalaminator"; Our more sensitive brethren might be interested in a walker name that reflects how it makes them feel  - the "Invalidator",  or the top of the line "Marginalizor".

 From a practical standpoint, despite its name, the walker cannot help me walk. You  see, if I am sans-dopamine - nothing will make those legs move. Then what - praytell - does my walker do? It gets me attention -- sometimes unwanted. I will explain by sharing a few tales  from my recent trip east to visit family.
This was to be the maiden voyage of NEXUS my new walker. I hopped from the car, leaving my wife to park at some distant lot. I continued towards the WestJet check-in noting that there was a substantial line up. What happened next left me surprised, confused, and unsure of what I really wanted.

 The WestJet clerk waved me forward, creating a new line  with me at the front. She had, in essence, jumped the queue for me. I subtlely scanned the others to see whether anyone else had noticed. For the first time, I mentally arm-wrestled with the -quandary of whether I wanted to be treated differently -  notably at a time that I didn’t need it.

I was checked in quickly and rounded the corner to towards security . I noted a very long line for the general public on the left,  and a  much shorter line on the right for "Nexus" (business and frequent travellers). As I approached the  security officer, I pointed to my walker,  branded "Nexus", then pointed to the  priority line-up, then to my chest and smiled. I received the maximum allowable smirk under their current security working agreement. Then surprisingly she motioned me towards the priority “Nexus" side. It was far less busy. 

We passed our trays onwards towards a Second officer whose specialized skill set likely landed her the coveted title of "distributor of the trays...and dispenser of miscellaneous rude gestures and offensive comments. However, her normally razor-sharp ability  to quickly discern full-grown, competent adults who are capable of answering independently from young children, teens who say “whatever”, and small fish, was about to falter. She gave me a look like I was the last available selection for dodgeball and  - then  turned to my wife and asked if "He" (ME)   would be able to walk through without my walker. I was puzzled. While my mini-stroke-induced  speech  impediment might delay my MENSA entry a bit, I had not said anything that she might have heard. Those that are regular readers and are aware that I publish at the prolific rate of about once /month would be none too surprised to learn that I could not come up with a smart-ass answer in adequate time. "Yes, I will be fine, but I would rather smack you over the head with my walker and ride the conveyor belt through…"

 Finally, in order to tiein the latter half of the title to the story, I need to tell you one more fish tale. This story starts in the inky black of my back lane, garbage night. Blogger, an avid recycler and amateur back lane garbage spelunker is excitedly unearthing a major find - a -nearly-whole, well-reserved ”Chariot”,(child carrier, trailer) )estimated to be from the late 90s time period. Blogger nearly wets his pants in excitement as he carries find back to camp. 

 With a little TLC, “Harriet the chariot”  has hauled a myriad of loads, from two rolls of sod, to a 12-pack of beer, to a dozen roses. I was on a run the other day when two cars passed in quick succession  both yelling indecipherables. I finally understood the driver of the third car who shouted,  “Get your baby on the sidewalk!” A phrase which has now becone part of our household lexicon.

 I hear you..."Come on,Blair, wrap this baby up like you usually do - pulling together a bunch of seemingly pointless and rambling threads into one tightly woven conclusion that rivals those god-forsaken Christmas sweaters your Nana used to give you..."

"Hariet the Chariot"

 Of course I could file most of this away in a folder tabbed: “Don’t judge a book by its cover”. The problem is that being a typical blogger, I don't necessarily  walk the walk - but what is worse -  I write the walk. Example: We had just finished a recent  speech therapy session where I had been videoed. I watched it again in the car and my heart sank as looked at it - slurred syllables and a rolling head, I looked like a cross between Stevie  Wonder and Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. I remarked to my wife of how dumb I looked - adding that if MENSA ever saw the video, my entry would surely be delayed.. How could I justify the piling on I had done with the security officer when I myself deep down maybe wasn’t a whole lot different. Could I be excused for my faux pas because I was both the offender and the victim? Was the only difference between her and myself that I knew what was acceptable to say - irrespective of what I was thinking?

All question to which I do not have answers to. As often seems to be the case with me I have managed to slog through a rather lengthy blog entry, not starting out knowing what I had to say - but rather ending asking what  did I say??

Feedback, comment? You've been hiding for quite a while.. Unmask yourself!!

 Email Blair

"Third Times the Charm?"

Yet again I  managed to defy the odds as I was rebuffed in my second try at DBS.

We were ¾ of the way through; the Brain surgeon had mapped more  than Samuel de Champlain when Blair started to talk funny everyone knew the jig was up. I had experienced a mini-stroke (4% chance) and the proceedings were halted at that point. I will need to try again in six months. The effects of the surgery and/or stroke (we are not sure which effects come from which event) have been substantial, and not all negative.

My sleep habits have been transformed back to that of a teenager’s. It is really remarkable to experience. My balance has been the main negative, but has already improved dramatically and is already close to normal. The primary difficulty has been my speech, with me occasionally sounding like a drunken sailor or a former Canadian Prime Minister from Shawinigan. My main frustration has been that my computer speech program does not understand me anymore. I’ve tried creating a new profile; They have profiles such as British accent, southern US, and even teens (lol, whatever). They even offer  'other accents not specified," but I doubt they were referring to DBS induced stroke speech illegibility.

With   regards to Part II to Roller Boy, I will not be publishing that immediately, but will morph its contents into some future entry. Instead, I will be publishing a blog entry that refers specifically to recent events in the surgery milieu.tentatively titled "Viva Las Vegas".hat will chronicle my uncanny ability to routinely surmount seemingly insurmountable medical odds

Cheers,

Blair

Envoy rollerboy

I’ve never been terribly fond of unexpected visitors at my door. Possibly King of the castle syndrome, I'm not sure.With Parkinson's, that sentiment has only intensified. I also seem to have a diminished ability to fake it, i.e., the doorbells equivalent of a phone call’s “no, you didn’t wake me up” demeanour. It’s just that often the timing is not right - meaning that with the effort required to get downstairs, I might as well have been asked to go down and raise the drawbridge.

I shuffled to the door. The impatient second ring came quickly. With that info I pegged our dirty rascal as mid to late high school. I opened the door and there he was - “Roller Boy”. A landscaping busker, an entrepreneurial huckster, ultimately, 100% pure bluster.

 A young man of linguistic economy, his approach was pure, unadulterated, and wholly unrehearsed. "Want your lawn Rolled?" was both his opener and closer. I thought it my duty to suggest that in my neighbourhood of lilliputian lots, perhaps he might make more money as a chimney sweep. I refrained. His facial expression turned quizzical. He looked at me, cocked his head (like my Collie/Husky Cross does when she can’t find her squeaky toy), then tossed me a grenade. 

Are you using?" Before I could utter anything more than unintelligibles, he pulled the pin and lobbed the second, “Are you on heroin?” I was stunned. Stunned that this kid was allowed to leave the factory without a filter installed - and stunned that I could be mistaken for a heroin user. Did I really look that bad?

I quickly marshalled all available brain cells with dopamine reserves and explored my options. I could 1) Thump him upside of his subthalamic nucleus. 2) Accuse him of being a member of the Flat Earth Society, and disappear inside.  3) Consider It a teachable moment. I threw back my head and let out a hearty laugh. And with that, Parkinson's 101 in the reeducation of “Roller Boy” began.

While some may be surprised with my reaction (or lack of) Why did I not take offence? It took me a while to figure it out but I think underneath it all, I was simply pleased that I didn’t give a shit. Not in the disrespectful “I don’t care what you think” way, the “this is not something I need be concerned with” way. But is it all that simple?

Part 2 Coming Up...

No Brain Cells Were Stimulated in the Writing of This Blog Entry

It was a sordid affair. Another of my surgically unconsummated flings. Left at the Deep Brain Stimulation altar for reasons which I cannot share without jeopardizing a pending book deal, I now look forward to a mid-July sequel. But not before leaving you with...

The Top 10 Explanations Why Blair's DBS Surgery Was Halted With Nary a Tickle...

10 The "procedure", was just a sampler - part of the hospital's “All Surgeries – One Day” promotion that gives ambitious patients the opportunity to non-invasively sample any surgery or procedure that they might like to pursue.

9 His team was operating on a strict "Didn't call - Won't Drill" policy.
8 He was flagged for a psych assessment and put on the “no-drill” list after his name was discovered on a list of patients with blogs "who make us look silly".
7 A security breach. Dr. Zeus from his “DBS dream” blog entry stormed into the operating room shouting “Blair said I could dig the first hole!” 6 Someone forgot to make the “Call Before you Drill” phone call. 5 Once the Frankenesque mask had been fitted, Blair,only had to croon a few bars before a serious earworm infestation took hold and brought the clinic to a standstill. It caught on in a flash, especially with the graveyard staff, he did the Mash... 4 Unbeknownst to Blair he had booked himself for the new DIY DBS plan where the hospital provides full gear rental and installation - as well a Cranial guidebook based on their own personal MRI imaging and local guides (Top Places To Explore While In the Subthalamic Nucleus, etc.)
3 The drill bit chosen was no match for my steely will - they had to retool. 2 Noting that the patient has had six surgeries (both consummated and not) within the last 5 years, the hospital gave him a four week suspension, pleading with his wife to "Please find the man a different hobby".. 
1  Blair was lanced from the surgery queue due to the detection of high levels of the performance-enhancing drug amoxicillin.

Now For a Short DBS Break...

Tomorrow's the big day. My Deep Brain Stimulation surgery. I'm not sure when the next post will be - hopefully in the next week or two. I did come close to finishing my last post but not quite. I assume when I do post you'll want to hear about the surgery first so I will put the other one on the back burner. Talk to you soon,

Blair

Blogger Goes Electric - Readers Protest

Background:

In Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS) Surgery, a thin electrode is implanted into the brain, targeting motor circuits that are not functioning properly. Small electrical pulses from a device similar to a cardiac pacemaker are then used to stimulate a small brain region and block the signals that cause some Parkinson’s symptoms. DBS may be targeted to the globus pallidus or subthalamic nucleus to improve motor function. The stimulator is adjusted as necessary to optimize the effects of the surgery. This blogger has watched it on the distant horizon for quite some period. Has his time come?

Scene: Two neurosurgeons confer at the bedside of a patient who has just had DBS surgery.

Dr. Zeus: "It’s a tragedy Parkinson’s struck him at such a young age. I understand he had such a promising career as a pole dancer."
Dr. Dubinhoeffer: "Yes, his dismounts were flawless. Oh yeah, his wife warned me that he might act like a bit of a goof when he comes to. She said something about him likely doing some sort of shtick - not really sure what she meant but we’ll see."
Patient: "I ffeee..." (patient grimaces)
Patient:  (rubs his eyes, wipes nose on his sleeve) “ Wo! I feel good!!”
Dr. Zeus:  “That’s great!”
Patient: “I knew that I would now”
Dr. Zeus:  “Why is that?”
Patient: “I feel good, I knew that I would now”
Dr. Zeus:  “The nausea should wear off i...”
Patient:  “So good”
Dr. Zeus: “Ah ha”
Patient: “So good...”
Dr. Zeus: "Dubinhoeffer, we may have nicked the repeat utterance node. Might require an adjustment on the stimulator - unless he will be working as a greeter following recovery.
Patient: “I GOT YOU!!!”
Dr. Zeus:  “No, you don’t have me - you have your wife Judy. And I’m guessing it’s a miracle that you still have her.”
Dr. Zeus:  “Mr. Rasmussen, The DBS surgery was a success by any measure  - except possibly some that may be important to you.”
Patient: “I thought the surgery was to be performed with me awake?”
Dr. Zeus: “That was the original plan. You know, you did seem to endear yourself to my surgical team for a time - but eventually your relentless verbal diarrhea wore on them. We took a quick poll at the 8 minute point and all agreed your surgical outcome would be markedly better by being put down… ummm, under.

Dr. Zeus:  “Once the team had finished hugging the anaesthesiologist, we got down to work. As you know Mr. Rasmussen, we try to take a holistic approach with our Deep Brain Stimulation Procedure. We feel that once we’ve got the lid open we have a responsibility to the patient to deal with issues (Parkinson’s or not) that we find and can resolve. Quite simply, we would like you to think of us as a one-stop shop for any issue that starts with the noggin.”

Dr. Zeus: "The first task was not related to Parkinson’s, but in our judgment likely had a greater impact on your quality-of-life than PD itself. Closer inspection of your MRI showed you to be suffering from a deeply burrowed “earworm” - one of the nastiest cases we’ve ever seen. You’ve had this song in your head for quite a while, correct?”
Patient: “Yes, since day two of frosh week, 1983. The song is Wooly Bully by Sam The Sham and The Pharaohs. It is not a painful condition, (unless you’re listening to the Joan Jett or Bruce Springsteen cover) but I often find  myself in very awkward social situations where I, I,...,”
Dr. Zeus: “Blurt out random lyrics uncontrollably?”
Patient: (a tear runs down cheek) “Yes – People laugh, but it’s no joke.  The stress on the marriage can be enormous. Imagine going to your partner’s elementary school staff party - a normally staid affair. You are just minding your own business trying as hard as you can to contain yourself as you note how many remind you of Alvin the Chipmunk - one cheek puffed out full of Christmas goodies – the other chock full of educational acronyms. You can’t stand it any longer and you break out into chorus:
Matty told Hatty about a thing she saw
Had two big horns and a wooly jaw
Wooly bully, wooly bully...

Dr. Zeus: “What is the reaction?"
Dr. Zeus: “They either lock you in one of the spare rooms, or they think if you are that crazy they  offer you a job in Admin.”
Dr. Zeus:  “The songs that get stuck in people’s heads tend to be melodically and rhythmically simple. Would that be fair description?"
Patient: "Uh, yeah"
Dr. Zeus:  “While earworm remediation is generally not our forte, we took the liberty of attempting treatment. Phil from radiology mentioned that he had one of the classic earworm extraction CDs: Dan Hill’s “Sometimes When We Touch”. We followed the directions carefully - as the side effects can often exceed the severity of the original condition. Results may take up to two weeks – but do contact the hospital, your family Physician, or call 911 immediately if sometimes when you touch the honesty is too much, and you have to close your eyes and hide…

Dr. Zeus: “Our next “value-added service” was to switch on the “badboy” control in your prefrontal cortex, as per your personality change request detailed in your draft cartoon. Do note change in terminology from the less-than-palatable wording used in your draft request.

Patient: "That was not meant to be serious! It was a cartoon, that’s all."
Dr. Zeus: "That may be so, I’m guessing you will be extremely interested in our findings. Your “bad boy” switch looked like it had been stuck in the “on” position for sometime. We are talking years, if not decades. From a clinical perspective, this is absolutely remarkable."
Patient: “Why do you say that?”
Dr. Zeus: "What this means is that nurture has triumphed over nature!"
Patient: "What exactly does this mean?"
Dr. Zeus: "Well, it would seem that right from birth you have been totally wired to be a “bad-boy”. You know, Mick Jagger, James Dean, Ben Mulroney, etc. Have you ever spent any time in the Big House? Left women at the altar? Trashed hotel rooms on tour?"
Patient: "I don’t think so. I have a collection of soap and towels. Do those count for anything?"
Dr. Zeus: "I’m guessing you’ve had some pretty solid female influences in your lifetime - ?"
Patient: Yes, Mom, my late sister Linda, my wife...Life-affirming role models
Dr. Zeus: "Well, here’s the thing. We found that bad-boy lever to be frozen solid. We couldn’t budge it. I have read your blog and understand your brothers, well, they’re not perfect - who is? But they might just be part of your social fabric that is so effectively keeping you on the straight and narrow. You’d be well advised to keep them around. Your Mom? The fact that you can’t lie to her face might be precisely the reason she likes to face time you. Your wife - all can say is do not screw that up as she is your last line of defense between your current domestic bliss and having a new roommate named Vinny…”

”Another non-Parkinson’s related task we performed came from the fact that virtually everyone on our surgical team found your writing in the blog to be murky, unintelligible at times, and well, nonsensical.”
Patient: “You’re telling me you’re offering me a blog review after reading for five minutes?”
Dr. Zeus:  “Oh no, we were extremely thorough - we took a two hour lunch to go over it.”
Patient: “You’re kidding me…”
Dr. Zeus:  “Not at all. Bernie put your MRI up on the screen, Myrna would read a blog entry of yours, and we would take turns guessing what part of the brain was impaired enough to produce that level of dysfunction.”
Patient: “Incredible!"
Dr. Zeus:  “I know, exactly my reaction. Mr. Rasmussen. When lunch was finally over we all come to an agreement about what treatment location would maximize results. We deftly placed the lead in the temporal lobe, specifically in the Blogospheric Inflatius where rogue electrical activity was producing nonsensical blog entries."
Patient: “You stole that from my draft! That’s not even a real structure - I made it¬up!
Dr. Zeus:  “That is a pretty serious accusation! In any event, your directions were excellent - we found it exactly where you said it would be. We think your readers will be pleased with results.

Dr. Zeus:  “Our last non-Parkinson’s issue we dealt with arrived via a request from one of your brothers concerned that some of your content (notably a few of the cartoons) were coming from quite a dark place. Have you read Amir and Biederman’s landmark research on comedy in the brain – specifically the finding that the temporal lobe is the source of humour?"
Patient: “Yes, they believe that jokes are made there"
Dr. Zeus:  “How do I put this delicately…? We couldn’t find many lights in that region of your brain. Your brother was right on. Indeed, it was pitch black in there."
Patient: “My dad always told us to turn out the lights when we are not using the Temporal Lobe."
Dr. Zeus:  “That was only moderately funny. Sir, there were zero lights on. We could not even find a nightlight on."
Patient: “You think that might be because you guys knocked me out?"
Dr. Zeus:  “Good point. So What is your next blog topic?
Patient: My current project is a short tale of a blogger with Parkinson’s who has the brain stimulation surgery (at least he thinks that they got that done  :-).  He wakes up in the recovery room with his two surgeons hovering over him, seemingly more interested in the “extra” surgical tasks they accomplished while they were rummaging around in his noggin. The blogger is fascinated by the science and potential for those operating in the brain in the future. He speculates whether in the future these medical professionals will be viewed more as the “plastic surgeons” of the day operating from an ala Carte menu with such spectacular results that the whole concept of elective and non-elective surgery needs to be revisited."
Patient: “Soooo, my blogging is nonsensical, you say? Is there something wrong with that ?"
Dr. Zeus:  “You are so predictable - I knew you'd come back to that :-)  Absolutely, they should make sense, shouldn’t they?"
Patient: Nonsense! You expect me to make sense out of nonsense? I tried long ago to make sense out of the disease and failed miserably."
Dr. Zeus:  “What doesn’t make sense to you?"
Patient: Not a whole lot. The fact the Parkinson’s was discovered in 1817 – and you guys haven’t cracked the nut yet? That mystifies me. The fact that my days are so predictably unpredictable - that puzzles me. The fact that after 10 years of the disease my only option is like Dylan, to go electric, disappoints me."

“I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, It’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities.”    - Dr Seuss -

Patient: Writing nonsense makes sense for me right now, and the space that I am in. Reality doesn’t always make pleasant writing (nor reading)."
Dr. Zeus:  “I may not be the sharpest scalpel on the table, but I think I'm piecing together what's going down here - you’ve been looking at DBS through the wrong end of a telescope - that the surgery has been a dream of sorts that it never really happened? That I’ve been just a bit player in one of your productions?"
Patient: Hey, if you were a bit player in this production, you would've been Phil from radiology, or Dr. Dubinhoeffer who had only one line in the whole show. This show was built around you/for me. This is been one good bout nonsense therapy for me. Good mental prep for my real date in mid June."
Dr. Zeus:  “Best of luck Mr. Rasmussen. Keep your sense of humour, eh?"
Patient: (presses nurses call button)
Wooly Bully, Wooly Bully…




[Comments? Like this post? Think I need another long break? Want to nominate me for one of ttose cheesy bloggger awards? You can reach me personally at: blair.rasmussen@gmail.com

The Late 'Great One'

I can cope with the fact that my mobility is well, not terribly mobile every few hours, that my equilibrium system is  not equilibrating quite as it used to, and that my dexterity is not dexterous anymore. But this is the last straw. I've now learned that I, (and my ilk), are suspected of having defective time perception.

Yes, the consequences could be frightening. As the research states: "The perception and estimation of time are fundamental for the relationship between humans and their environment". If you interpreted "environment" as referring to your partner, you are  tactless. You likely getting yourself in more trouble than I am these days. But yes, if we do make that leap, then we quickly recognize the nasty implications.

First, let's present the science: Researchers at the Medical College of Wisconsin in Milwaukee and Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Albuquerque have identified areas in the brain responsible for perceiving the passage of time in order to carry out critical everyday functions - like accurately gauging how long you been in the shower in order to make sure you leave enough water for your partner - for as we all know, is nothing more dangerous than a teacher scorned by a cold shower on a school day.

"However, this temporal information processing is inefficient in patients with Parkinson’ disease (PD), resulting in temporal judgment deficits. In general, the pathophysiology of PD has been described as a dysfunction in the basal ganglia, which is a multisensory integration station."

I confess, this was not a total surprise to me. In recent months I had noticed some subtle changes. You know how they say Gretzky never went to where the puck was, he went to where it was going to be? That used to be me. I was the master of my domain. I knew what was going to happen, and when. Wife's going upstairs to get something? I knew exactly whether I had time to: 1) take a swig of the milk carton, 2) steal a cookie from the oven and adjust the remaining,  or, 3) grab her iPhone to find out when her birthday  is. Or all three.

However lately my ability to manage and resolve conflict seems to be faltering. They say that "time heals all wounds", but how much time? And what kind of wounds? Just a flesh wound? Ego laceration? How will I ever know when it is safe to open a slammed door? My basal ganglia used to tingle with relevant timing info. Like firemen who can judge the ferocity of the inferno on the other side by putting his hand up to the  door, I seemed to have an innate ability to judge with the passing of time when the tension and hostilities had settled enough for peace talks - and whether I should wear flak jacket just to be safe.

My difficulties with perceiving the passage of time also has had repercussions  in the entertainment sphere as my ability to effectively gauge the optimal Netflix reject and retreat point (the optimal point to bail on a partner-chosen movie) was clearly struggling. Sloppy timing and you will be the recipient of: "you never gave it a chance"  (early termination), or, "now you've ruined the finish for me". Either way, chances are good that your next cinematic experience will be enjoyed on a 4.5 inch screen.

Time estimation is also the very foundation of analyzing the sincerity and pliability of "departure threats". "Honey, I'm leaving at 4:15 PM with or without you". You have to be careful with these - first, you must answer the question: does she really want to be on time? Or is she just looking for some time sans-you? In any event, with the diminished ability to judge the passing of time, your ability to call her bluff is significantly impaired. You might just want to consider being on time from now on. How? Try this first: Imagine there has been a new time zone created just for you - let's call it "PDT" (That's correct, Parkinson's Disease Time. Go ahead, change your clocks. Your time zone is set 30 minutes ahead of MDT (Mountain Daylight Time). There you go, they've got 30 more  minutes to get ready for anything they throw your way!

Like many other symptoms of Parkinson's, others tend to notice some much earlier than you do yourself. (Or in the master charade, you pretend they are not there.)
My wife notices these changes much more than I ever have. I am much more aware of the challenges in accomplishing tasks when my dopamine is on the low end of the tank. These situations can be infinitely frustrating - characterized by uncertainty. Miss-judging  the passing of time can be a source of stress. The other uncertainty is whether your meds will even kick-in in time. To live and thrive amidst all these constant question marks requires a pretty special person.  Having the patience of yoga master, the "no nonsence" glance of a grade 6 teacher, and the wisdom of when to utilize each, I can't imagine having a better partner to go to war with.

But let's be honest, Basal ganglia function aside, time doesn't really heal all wounds". But an orchid and a massage does :-)