I haven’t felt motivated to write a blog since last August, when my son underwent heart surgery at just 10 weeks old. Following that writing about my own condition just seemed a bit well…..selfish. I’m conscious that I never wrapped up that story for those of you who may only know me via this blog, the great news is that the wee fella is absolutely thriving. He got the all clear from the cardiologist a few weeks back and is very much a loveable, perpetually smiley, wee character who lights up any room he enters. I can only assume therefore that he takes after his mother…..
My best writing comes when I feel emotive about a subject, whether that be my son’s heart operation or even dodgy customer service from Dominos pizza. Today my mum and dad came across a man in a state of distress whilst out walking in Burntisland, his medication wasn’t working properly and he was struggling to get home, he could barely even work his phone to call his family for help. The man had Parkinson’s disease.
The gentleman in question was 12 years post diagnosis and reliant on his medication to move. Orally administered medication was possibly no longer effective for him as he was reliant on an intestinal pump which had seemingly jammed. They were able to get in touch with his family, and in particular his young son who knew how to fix the problem. Mum and dad being the compassionate and caring people that they are, comforted the man, explained their connection to Parkinson’s and gave him a lift home. It turned out that he recognised me from publicity that surrounded my diagnosis a couple of years back (I never thought that a couple of appearances on the telly and in the newspapers would lead to enduring fame in deepest, darkest Fife a couple of years after the event). With utter selflessness, the man showed concern for my mum and dad upon this revelation as he knew that seeing him in the distressed state was an awful window for what the future may hold for their own son.
It led me to reflect on how a chronic degenerative illness at a young age, not only affects me as a parent myself but equally my own parents. The sense of frustration is obviously immense about being unable to know what the course of the disease will be, the rate of progression and the severity of the symptoms, and the impact it will have on my family affects both older and younger generations.
Yet whenever I have doubts about what kind of parent I will be as my son grows up are immediately eased every time he looks up lovingly at me whilst I’m giving his bath and babbles ‘dada’, before he invariably then reaches up and tugs my hair so hard that he comes close to pulling it out from the root. No matter what physical state I may degenerate into (and it’s important to remember that now is as hopeful a time as there’s ever been for those of us with PD), it is love that will always endure.
granderouge 