Two miles into a nine-mile hike—a hike my husband and I have done before, the breadth and terrain similar to hikes we plan and execute every West Texas summer vacation—I knew one thing for certain: my left leg was trying to kill me. It had damn well nearly succeeded the day before. Walking that need-to-go-to-the-bathroom pace on a public sidewalk in a state park, wearing perfectly worn-in Birks that everyone knows are practically orthopedic shoes, my left foot skimmed over the tiniest blip of unevenness and I went airborne, my right knee and elbow the first to break the fall. I suppose I’ll pass my bone density test later this month because it’s a miracle my kneecap didn’t shatter into a million pieces. My dignity didn’t fare as well.
“It’s like my right foot is in charge and my left is happy to be dragged along for the ride,” I kept telling my husband on this hike. My hyper-awareness to what my body is doing is no doubt due to the fact that this vacation interrupted a series of scans ordered by my neurologist to determine the cause of some concerning symptoms, harbingers, flares that my body has been shooting off for two years now. I am now a person that has a neurologist. Otherwise, I may have thought this left foot thing was a figment of my imagination.
There’s something magical happening too. You could blame this on being raised by Disney, but the animals know I’m tender. Just that morning, I had coffee outside our lodge that backed up to a livestock pen that housed longhorn and half a dozen horses. I walked out to a threesome and at first, they seemed up for a visit. Well two of them were but the prettiest one, a white and freckled stallion with a gray mane, immediately huffed and pawed and did an about face as I approached the fence. I told him how pretty he was and maybe it was my soft morning voice (add this to the pile of symptoms), but it pulled him closer and closer until I was stroking his velvet nose.
I could have written that off as a domesticated flirtation but then it just kept happening. So many wild animal encounters, more than any we’ve ever spotted on this summer vacation we’ve taken to West Texas and into New Mexico for a good decade and a half. And these weren’t just quick glances. With each one, it was a deliberate and mutual gaze: a hummingbird that hovered at eye-level, inch by inch closer until she zipped away. A rattlesnake, not a common diamondback but one more cleverly patterned, stopped to let us observe her black rattle-tail before she slithered into a cool tree hidey-hole. About halfway up our ascent to the peak of the nine-miler, an entire herd of what Google wanted to confirm were desert bighorn sheep (although later the park ranger would say, “Nah, those were probably aoudads,” but we saw what we saw and they were no aoudads) prance down a line of boulders like they were at a dance recital, and the one bringing up the rear paused for what felt like a hundred seconds to peer around his loc of a horn, give us a good stare before he flicked his white butt in the direction of his pals and pirouetted along. Then there was the fox up on the path in New Mexico who stopped like “take a picture, it will last longer”, but no need, his foxy stare seared into my brain before he sashayed on. And the elk who did wait for us to take out our phones and practically winked at the camera. And I’m not even including all the cardinals (or Pops) and chipmunks and one horny toad who froze except for two black points for eyes that swiveled and cranked as we inched closer with our marvel. Maybe it was Darwinistic, each one sizing up my weakness to see if they could pick me off. But I don’t think so. It felt more like care.
Dopamine is the Pick Me of all the neurotransmitters. Mine were busy-bodies, over-functioners, wanting their hands in every little thing, “Oh you like that? Have ten!” So I find it ironic (or maybe more in the Alanis Morissette sense, I really mean a bummer) that I’ve been diagnosed with a disease caused by a dopamine deficiency. Me, who drank up dopamine until the excess spilled down my chin, who did the backstroke in a champagne flute of dopamine, who high-fived dopamine at every mile marker in a race to win more dopamine, I now have very little. I wore them down, they’ve packed up and moved out. I’m certain there’s a more scientific explanation for someone who used to be an alcoholic and now has Parkinson’s disease and one of those is most likely that the two aren’t causal, my hypothesis probably has no legs. Try telling this brain that loves a good narrative though. I need some wallowing in the notion that I made my bed. Thank you for that allowance.
Considering the decades of damage I deliberately inflicted on my body, I’ve had a good run healthwise. I’m now on medication but my neurologist offered that lifestyle is the best medicine. I believe I have that dialed in. Since I got sober ten years ago, creativity and expression has felt urgent. It still does, especially now. My tremor may never cross over to my right hand, but it could. I’m moving slower and I’ve accepted that. 5am is still my golden hour. I’m a dry piece of toast after 4pm. I’m grateful to have a diagnosis, which is now a lens that I can apply to my last few years. It explains so much: the depression, my lack of drive (in all arenas), inability to find my words, my faltering voice, gastro issues and just weird aches and pains. It’s been hard to parse out what is Parkinson’s and what is menopause but perhaps they joined forces or perhaps it doesn’t matter. I have a pang of guilt over my self-indulgence when the current climate has been so tense, although Kamala makes me feel hopeful. That hope is permeating. Where the animals were holding tender space for me, I’m not quite there yet. But I’m close.
Some housekeeping:
I’m opening this post, including the comment section, to all subscribers. I welcome your books or resources. I do not welcome directives. Unless it’s coming from my neurologist, I really hate to be told what to do. Thanks for understanding. In the future, I may insert the paywall when I’m feeling a too raw. I’m practicing letting people in, so no paywall today.
Everything is changing, as usual, but I’m moving at a snail’s pace. I’ve almost hit my year on Substack though, yay! I’m revisiting all of my offerings for paid subscribers and I’ve got some decisions to make. One offering I’m solid on: I’m adding a 45 minute 1:1 session with me for all Founding Members, retroactively (no pressure to accept this perk) and all future. I’m working on setting up dates on Calendly, so if you are a Founding Member (or you become a Founding Member), look for that email soon. Topics can be recovery, creativity, writing, or whatever is on your mind. 1:1’s are my favorite and I’m excited about this addition.
Take care, xoxo.
Wrapping you up in a healing cocoon, Sondra. I listened to this recently, some interesting nuggets on the microbiome and Parkinson’s. Lots of love 💙
https://youtu.be/J6gfH9Q4NWY?si=RKwE0M2mvV8hyhFv
Sondra, you captured the Disney-like animal encounters so beautifully. And the shame and blame around past indulgences resonates…the more I read about RA and smoking (as if that’s the WORST, I did), the more I have to pull myself out of berating mode. All my love to you on this journey. And whenever you need a little break from it all, there is a casita with your name on it!