20210113 MISSING THE BLACK ARMBAND
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I have a medical alert band on my wrist. It's for my Parkinson's. 
Parkinson's you say. Why have a band? It's not like you have 
diabetes or are allergic to bee stings. To be honest, I used to 
think the same thing. Sometimes you have to be inside the beast 
before you can strike a light and discover how truly in the dark 
you've been.

Why the wristband? 

Because when the dopamine wears off, my speech is often slurred 
and I'm unsteady on my feet. More than a few folks with 
Parkinson's have been treated like drunks by their fellows or the 
police. I fully understand why they make that mistake. When you 
add the mental confusion that often plagues those dealing with 
Parksinson's Disease, it sure seems like the person just might be 
tipsy.

Unfortunately, adjusting for dopamine dose-effects is not an exact 
science. Many things affect how well the dopamine is absorbed and 
used. Everyone is different and they respond to both the disease 
and the drug in a variety of ways. Even the same person will 
respond differently at different times of the day and days of the 
week.

I am rediscovering that this is true of other aspects of our lives 
as well. We just lost Mum after losing Dad a few years ago. (Oscar 
Wilde quips accepted--humour helps.) Her death was not unexpected. 
Still, it is stark. My daughter was able to speak with her a 
couple of hours before Mum passed. I think they both knew the end 
was near. Mum was at peace.

But, I am not. I have too many questions left. I keep thinking, "I 
must ask Mum about that." She was our last tie to the passed (no, 
I don't mean past) generations. I've now watched three of them 
shuffle off this mortal coil. I am well aware that the cord is now 
wrapped tightly around my ankle and that I am edging ever forward 
towards the cliff face myself. 

Mixing the metaphor again, the thread may be severed any time.

What I miss is the black armband that we wore ubiquitously in my 
youth. It seems that we only wear them now for famous strangers or 
after disasters. It would be nice for people to realise that I am 
not seeking to be rude when I don't respond. Sometimes I can't 
talk as tears threaten and my throat tightens in warning.

If I lose my balance, or I'm acting rum for a time, just give me 
some space. That's what the black band once declared. It's as if 
I'm wading through molasses, so don't mind me. Just let me be 
nearby. I'll be fine. Sometime. But, not just now.