August 13, 2018, 6:30 a.m.
I’m going down.It’s a flash fall.
Vertical to horizontal in a blink.
I twist my head to save my face from collision with the kitchen tile.
What the hell just happened?
Surprise: I can’t feel my left arm.
As my shock subsides, it’s clear that I need help.
*
After thirty years of Parkinson’s, I have established a sort of detente with the disease.
We’ve had a history together.
But then came the check hook; the blow that put me on my knees for a while.
Unrelated to PD, a tumor had been found high on my spinal cord.
The mass was benign, but constricting, and well on its way to leaving me paralyzed.
And then this happened.
Tracy was concerned about me staying in New York by myself.
I was still what we would both describe as a little wobbly on my feet.
I’ll be back in two days, I promised.
Save me a lobster.
She lingered with me for dinner, take-out pasta at the kitchen table.
Polishing off the last forkful, she had a question.
“How do you feel about going back to work?”
“I don’t know, I guess I feel normal again.”
“But are you nervous, Dood?
All of my kids call me that.
Not Dude,
Dood.
I flashed a confident smile.
Hey, it’s my job.
It’s what I do.
Skeeter, I love you.
I’ve done this a million times.
You go back to your apartment, get some rest.
I’ll be fine.
It was a gentle reprimand, and deserved.
It wreaks havoc with my coordination.
“You got it.
I hugged her good night and watched the elevator doors close.
For the first time in months, I was alone.
And now, here comes the pain.
A tiny transfer of weight to my left summons two revelations.
I slipped it into the back of my sweatpants before I came into the kitchen.
(Note to Schuyler: It wasn’t in my hand.)
Oddly, I think of Jimmy Cagney, of all people.
There is no spinning this.
It’s just pain and regret.
There is no finding the positive and moving on to the next circumstance life has to offer.
I feel something beyond frustration and anger, something akin to shame: embarrassment.
You have one job: Don’t fall.
Yet here I am.
This incident on the kitchen floor brings me down in more ways than one.
It isn’t that I am hurt; I’ve been hurt many times.
I’ve been through a lot, suffered the slings and arrows.
But for some reason, this just feels personal.
Make lemons into lemonade?
Screw it I’m out of the lemonade business.
EXCERPTED FROM NO TIME LIKE THE FUTURE.
COPYRIGHT 2020 BY MICHAEL J. EXCERPTED BY PERMISSION OF FLATIRON BOOKS, A DIVISION OF MACMILLAN PUBLISHERS.
NO PART OF THIS EXCERPT MAY BE REPRODUCED OR REPRINTED WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER.
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