Euphoria

“It must be the stress.”

Frank agreed. “You’ve been putting in too many hours.”

In the past few months, I’d gotten dizzy and trembly. I couldn’t do Tree Pose at yoga anymore. I fell on the escalator at the airport and blamed the new rolling bag. Yesterday, in Mom’s room at the nursing home, I leaned over a chair to put her butterscotch hard candies on the tray, lost my balance, and keeled over.

Frank rushed to help me up. I told him I was fine, not to worry. But Frank worried. And he wasn’t the only one.

Mom too. “I’m so worried about you, Margaret.”

“I’m just tired.”

That’s odd, I thought. Mom wasn’t ever much of a worrier. She had too many kids to worry about these things. But even Frank’s mother said the same thing. “I’m worried about Margaret.”

What do they expect, I thought. I’m almost seventy years old. Frank and I are both tired because we take care of them and their needs. Our whole world revolved around hospitals and doctor visits and Walmart. Then our three adult children moved back home. Who wouldn’t be tired?

I hated walking. I couldn’t ride a bike. And now I was falling down. Still, I thought I was just getting old. Some people radiate energy. I was never one of them, but I didn’t exercise. So fatigue seemed normal to me.

But when my right hand started to shake, the GP sent me to a neurologist.

Dr. Athni watched me walk across the room. He told me to let my hand hang down at my side, think about something else, and relax. It shook even more.

“It must be Essential Tremor,” I said. “Right?”

Some patients know more than the doctor. I know a lot because I looked it up on the internet. According to my research, these tremors are often nothing to worry about.

Dr. Athni shook his head. “It’s possible, but—”

I stood firm. “I don’t think it’s Parkinson’s.”

“We have to run the test. But…”

He paused as though he was deciding what he should say. Doctors like to keep their diagnoses a secret until they realize you know what you’re talking about. He could tell I was one of those people.

“I knew you had Parkinson’s,” he said, “thirty seconds after you walked in here.”

He pointed out my small, unsteady steps.

I’m seventy years old.

He pointed out my poor posture.

I’ve always slouched.

As he looked at his computer screen and typed, he said, “It’s challenging to get a definitive diagnosis with PD.” So we’ll run an experiment with this prescription. This is only for the diagnosis.”

Frank squeezed my hand. He does that sort of thing, even though I’m okay. I wish he wouldn’t worry so much. But he worries.

Dr. Athni described the medicine that was only for diagnosis. “Take one pill. If it works you have PD. If one doesn’t work, Take another, then another, up to eight. If it works and controls the tremor, then we’ll know you have PD.”

Not very scientific, Doctor.

Frank asked, “And if it doesn’t?”

“That would be bad news.”

I knew enough from the internet to know what the bad news could be. So now we prayed it would be Parkinson’s– the normal kind. After hassling with the pharmacy, which was out of stock, and another pharmacist, who said she needed another prescription from the doctor, who wasn’t readily available, Frank started the experiment which would answer the question, “Does Margaret have Parkinson’s Disease?”

Frank fed me the pills, one at a time, like the doctor said.

One pill did nothing. Two pills, nothing. Three. Four. Our panic set in.

The fifth pill brought on a skyrocketing blood pressure that had me begging to go to the emergency room.

“This is bad,” I said.

Frank had me lie down on the floor. He lay next to me with the blood pressure gizmo which he bought when he thought he had a heart problem. He talked me through it as we lay together on the living room floor like teenagers.

“You’re having a panic attack. Breathe. Slow it down.”

He’d seen me through panic attacks before, but this one took real work. Four count inhale. Eight count exhale. As I focused on the breathing exercise, Frank took my blood pressure every five minutes.

“What is it now?”

“It’s coming down,” he said. as he stroked my arm. “Don’t worry.”

“Hey Frank?”

He started the little blood pressure gizmo up again. “What is it, Marg?”

He always calls me that, ‘Marg’ with a hard G at the end. Not Marge. And not Margie or Maggie or Peggy. That’s my mother’s name. I go by “Margaret,” always, except for family and close friends. Margaret or ‘Marg’-with-a-hard G.

It was kinda sexy, lying there on the floor together like we were teenagers.

“When we first met, did you look at me and think, ‘Look at that gorgeous girl. Someday I want to be the one to take her blood pressure.’”

We laughed a little. The doctor warned me this drug had serious side effects. He was right. The Nasty Pill Number Five Effect convinced me I was in for a rough go.

I do not like Pill Number Five.

But the panic did subside. Frank said, “Look.”

I turned to see my hand at rest like a sleeping baby, next to the leg of the coffee table. The pill worked. I had Parkinson’s Disease.

Frank drove to Lowe’s to buy every handhold he could find. He pulled up all the throw rugs. He made a new rule, “No stairs without gripping the railing.”

The PD didn’t come on all of a sudden. I remembered early symptoms. A severe bout of anxiety and depression in 2016. Overwhelming fatigue. My tiny handwriting. I had been sick for a long time and didn’t even know it.

One year later, things have changed. I did everything my doctor—and the internet– suggested. I’d already said goodbye to alcohol, but now there would be no meat, no dairy, no processed foods.

And I had to exercise every day.

I’m not an athlete. I like to read and write and think and talk to people. But soon after my diagnosis, Frank dragged me to physical therapy first thing on Mondays and Thursdays. He stood by for the whole three minutes I could pedal on the stationary bike. He held my hand as I tried to balance on the rubbery half-ball. After I lifted the ten-pound weight from a squat to overhead thirty times, he handed me the bottle of his homemade electrolyte water.

All this year, I’ve taken the medicine. I’ve adjusted to the exercise. Because doctors agree that these neurological disorders come from exposure to toxic chemicals, especially in our food, I’ve gone vegan– except for treating myself to a few blue cheese crumbles in my salad.

Is that so wrong?

Today, I feel better than I have in a long time. Exercise, medicine, and diet combined have changed everything. My energy level astounds my family— and me. I can ride the stationary bike for an hour or more. I walk with big strides. And my Tree Pose is coming along.

I know I have Parkinson’s. They keep telling me it’s a progressive disease. I accept it. The doctors and the medical professionals must know what they’re talking about. So sure, things will progress. But really? I have no idea what’s going to happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Who does? So for today, for this minute, I’m grateful to modern medicine, yoga, and Frank.