As I write this before bed on a Saturday night, Antenna TV is airing “Put It On,” an episode of The Jeffersons in which the gals visit Bumpers, a male strip club; hijinks naturally ensue when Tom and George take the stage. (Sadly, I couldn’t find their amateur night routine on YouTube.) Had I seen it hours earlier, I might’ve felt less cranky.
My levodopa kept wearing off early, with doses lasting around 2.5 hours instead of the usual 3.5. Each time, like clockwork, its dwindling efficacy was heralded by painful dystonia in my foot, and in the muscles around my mouth. But what annoyed me the most was probably the sweat. Crankenstein and I ran a few non-taxing errands this afternoon and simply walking a short distance to the car afterward left me sweat-drenched, another stupid Parkinson’s thing.*
Until a year or two ago, I rarely broke a sweat. Now it seems to happen at the drop of a hat, regardless of the season or setting — and even with only minor physical activity. It’s my torso that gets the worst of it and on this occasion the back of my thin, light-colored shirt was soaked clean through. Fortunately, we were on our way home; having to wander around a store, library or museum like that would’ve been embarrassing.
It’s hard to maintain a positive attitude on days when your medication is consistently screwy. Instead of keeping my frustration to myself, I picked a stupid argument with Crankenstein (and felt like starting a half-dozen more). ‘Niles’ has been causing a ruckus over the last couple weeks and it’s becoming harder for me to avoid feeling stressed about it. Maybe that contributed to my medication woes, or maybe it was intestinal mishegoss; I can only hope for an easier go of it tomorrow.
The creeping dread you try to ignore on days like this involves the question, ‘What if this becomes a pattern?’ Because if it does, that would be another notch in the ‘possibly atypical’ column, a prospect no one wants to consider. There’s no point in burying your head in the sand about (unlikely) worst-case scenarios, but wringing your hands and gnashing your teeth is equally pointless — and so is venting impotent anger at your wife. Especially when you can watch George Jefferson try his hand at Magic Mike instead.
* Parkinson’s sweating is explained here, if you scroll down a bit. Pre-diagnosis, I wondered if it was hormonal. It’s not.