Yesterday I woke up determined to make the most of the next few hours. If my levodopa was timed correctly, I could walk three or four miles while it was still nice and cool outside — which was important because lately I’ve been easily drenched in sweat. Brisk air won’t stop the overheating, but it helps my shirt feel less gross when it happens.
Having spent most of my life minimally sweaty, even with physical exertion, I’ve found this development bizarre and annoying. During a leisurely August stroll in the shade with Crankenstein, I ran a finger along my back and held it aloft to show her the dripping sweat. “I don’t know if it’s hormonal or what, but it’s disgusting,” I remarked. Her face clouded over as she explained it’s a Parkinson’s thing.
In the days afterward I paid closer attention and realized the sweating is worse when my levodopa hasn’t kicked in yet, or when it’s almost time for the next dose. That rankled. Despite everything that’s happened this year, there’s a part of me that thinks “There’s no way you actually have this. This has all been a strange mistake.” It’s harder to hold onto that hope when — if you’ll forgive the uncouth John Waters parlance — I keep getting teabagged by reality.
Sometime in 2020, I vowed to be in the best physical shape of my life by the time I turned 40 in 2023. That was folly, for I was soon to discover that something was ‘off’ with my arm. Was it weaker than usual? I thought so but wouldn’t have staked my life on it. Definitely there was a reduced range of motion. It shook before and after I lifted weights, while my other arm was fine. In the coming months, the situation worsened until I had a list of more specific, yet still weirdly vague, complaints.
Then there were falls — in private and even in my yard, where others might see — but surely that had nothing to do with my arm. Secretly concerned, I purchased an Apple Watch SE in October of 2021 when my Fitbit died, mostly so I could call for help if I fell and injured myself while alone. Every day since it arrived, I’ve met my fitness goals; the watch keeps track of my streak. But doing so became more of a struggle as my 40th birthday came and went.
And then I started taking levodopa, and the clammy balls of fate first brushed against my face. Suddenly, working out was easier. Early in the morning, after I’ve fed Muriel and taken her outside, I use an indoor exercise bike. My pedaling is slow, jerky and uneven for a half-hour or so, until the levodopa kicks in. Lifting weights, which I do in earnest four days per week, is easier when the medication is at its peak, though it’s often still uncomfortable (especially when my neck Botox has worn off). Walking, too, is easier; my left foot doesn’t clench or drag as much.
Vigorous exercise is currently thought to be the only thing that might slow the progression of Parkinson’s, which creates a funny predicament if you need a diagnosis and proper treatment in order to vigorously exercise. It’s similarly amusing to ponder whether I’ll close out my 40th year in the sort of shape I’d first envisioned, and failed to achieve, three years ago.
Crankenstein, who has mostly known me as a physically frail specimen easily toppled by dogs, toddlers and moderate winds, occasionally pokes at me now and says “You have muscles!” The bigger challenge might be holding onto them, but I’ll grab my Olivia Newton-John headband and give it a try.