As I sit in my small apartment, I am overwhelmed with the thought of being a victim of Parkinson’s Disease. I always had a sneaking suspicion that I would get it; it’s not just my extreme paranoia— it’s the way the disease runs in my family. My Grandfather was one of its earliest victims and my more recent memories of my father, slowly succumbing to its persistent effects, haunt me.
I’ve grown an unbearable sense of dread as I keep noticing the slow movements in my hands, my droopy face and my slowness of speech, day after day. My friends tell me I’m being overly dramatic, but deep down I know that I am now going through what my family has gone through since two generations before me.
My life has already taken a significant step back since my diagnosis. My hobbies, writing and playing drums, have been taken away from me. My hands shake and become misaligned with little control over them. I struggle to express my thoughts in writing with my rapidly declining cognitive abilities. I can’t help but feel angry and frustrated with a disease that has taken away so much from me.
I had hoped for a better future, but all signs point to an inevitable fate. I have grown to accept my disease, but finding solace in it has been an insurmountable challenge. Despite my best efforts to stay positive, I know that things will only get worse from here. From a vibrant life to the unknown future, Parkinson’s has upturned my world and I am now a prisoner of its effects.