"Jim'll Fix It" (Part 1)

This is a tale of two halves, the first half having its roots in my childhood, so it feels sensible to me that I start at that point, way back to when I would have been about 8 or 9. Being the early 1970's, Bell Bottom trousers and mini skirts were all the rage, as were hotpants, and platform shoes. In the first half of the decade there had been opposition to the Vietnam War, whilst the music scene saw the rise of bands such as Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles and The Doobie Brothers (and yes, I am still a fan). The Beetles had split up, with Paul McCartney relaunching his music career with Wings, whilst John Lennon was singing songs about peace and love with Yoko Ono. The early part of the 1970's also saw the untimely deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin.

My Dad, being an officer in the Army Air Corps at the time, had been asked to fly the then reigning Miss UK to a spectacular event taking place at Roundhay Park in Leeds, landing his helicopter in the centre of the showground in front of thousands of people. How on earth he wrangled that one, I really don't know, but obviously it was an opportunity he was not going to miss out on. 

So that we could go watch this momentous event, we had been invited to stay with our ex-neighbours from our Netheravon days who had moved to Leeds. For me, the journey “up North” was very exciting – to my knowledge we had never travelled further than the “Watford Gap” - whatever that was! When we lived “next-door-but-one” to them in Netheravon Jim and my Dad were based at Netheravon airfield, and this period in our lives saw the start of a good friendship between the two men which was to last until the day my father died in 2002. As a child I adored Jimmy, and to be honest I still do! Whenever the two returned from exercise it was not unusual for me to run up to Jimmy, with the question “Did you miss me?”. Jimmy's wife, Joan, has never once failed to remember my birthday, and as usual, the card which arrived from them this year was addressed to “Little Jo”. This had been preceeded a few weeks previously by a package from Joan containing some old black and white photo's of the day at Roundhay Park.

Joan was a constant in our lives during those Netheravon days, and without batting an eye-lid took in my brother and me when my big sister suffered a serious skull fracture after falling off her bike. Needless to say it was the days before cycle helmets. What did two more children matter when she had successfully raised 5 of her own? We pretty much spent every spare minute we had in each other's houses and gardens anyway, playing games such as “Cow Boys and Indians” with the two youngest children, Richard and Andrew, who were about the same age as us.

Going back to the show at Leeds, what Jim and my Dad had both failed to mention to their respective wives was that Jim had “fixed it for himself” to meet and greet said Miss UK when she landed in my Dads helicopter at the showground, and escort her to her appointed place in the events. So, you can imagine Joan's surprise when Jim, having muttered to Joan that he “wouldn't be long” was next spotted striding towards where my Dad had landed the helicopter. It was, truly, a momentous occasion in the lives of the two families, one which has never been forgotten!

It was about this time that I started to hanker after a trip in a helicopter, preferably with my Dad at the controls. But the nearest I ever got to even sit in one was when I fought my way through quite a few boys so as to manage a brief look at one which was on display at an Army Air Corps event somewhere. Needless to say there was quite a bit of jostling going on, but I remember being completely bedazzled by all the different dials and switches.

So, this ambition of mine has lain dormant all these years. And then, at last it surfaced 40 years later, when purely by chance and "being in the right place at the right time" I met Dawn from the charity "Fly2Help". I was to finally realise my childhood dream..........

Destiny's child

This blog was originally written about three weeks ago, but since then events overtook its publication. The historical facts I have written about here are, the best of my knowledge, correct. But I would like to point out that I am no historian, and the facts have been pulled reluctantly from my memory and dusted down.



Last night I dreamt I was Jewish. Not only was I Jewish, I was also living and working in Poland in the late 1930’s at the time when Hitler’s anti-semitism movement was really gathering pace. To be honest with you, it was bloody with innocent victims indiscriminately picked out and slain in the streets, their only crime being born Jewish. In my dream I was absolutely petrified as I was herded in to a cattle wagon, separated from my husband and young children, and shipped off to some God-foresaken destination only to be slaughtered like an animal on arrival. In my dream I was there, I could smell the fear of my fellow travellers. I not only saw their suffering, I shared it. When I woke up, I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I was to find I was Jo, living in the UK, in the early part of the 21^st Century.

Why did I have such a dream? I have absolutely no idea. Yes, I have read Anne Frank and I’m sure I read it as a teenager, although I cannot be 100% certain about that. But I have read it recently, finishing it a couple of months ago. Anne was indeed a most courageous young lady, a heroin of her time. And as time went by, she seemed to know what her fate was going to be. It wasn’t of her choosing and given a choice she would have been free, on her way to becoming a famous author/journalist as life had originally intended for her. It is ironic how she achieved her ambition, albeit posthumously. It is due to Anne, and others like her, that we can understand how terrible it must have been for the Frank family and their co-dwellers, having to live cheek by jowl, keeping absolute silence, hardly daring to breath in case of being found. Somehow they managed to survive, in spite of eating scraps and mouldy potatoes as food became more and more scarce. It is so sad that they nearly made it. Victory and release from their self-imposed prison was a matter of months away. For them, there was no industrialist giant such as Schindler to give them shelter, a sanctuary, a possibility of escape. But at least they had help – and those who helped them risked just as much as Schindler did.

So why did Hitler do it? Why did he hate a race so much that he not only wanted to punish it, he wanted to eradicate it. Why, when as far as I am aware, he was part Jewish himself? Why was he obsessed with his Aryan ideal becoming the master race? What would have happened had he succeeded in his ambition to wipe the Jewish race off the planet? Would his creation then have turned on him in the end, destroying their creator? I think so – but I’m sure there are people out there who would disagree with me. Why did he do what he did to a race that contributed so much to the economy of Europe at that time? The Jews were successful in every walk of life. They were Doctors, Dentists, Lawyers, Architects, Accountants, Musicians, Teachers, even Butchers, Bakers and Greengrocers. Was it that he did not have the capacity to achieve what his countrymen did that made him turn on them – his history, the very stuff his genetic makeup embodied – that made him want to destroy so many? Someone told me recently that Hitler had Parkinson’s. I don’t know íf this is true or not, and maybe as a result of his inability to control his own body he became obsessed with what he felt should have been rightly his.

And in spite of all that was witnessed when World War II finished, why have others gone on to do what Hitler did - turning on fellow mankind in a bid to eradicate them because of their religious beliefs?


Had I gone on to study History at University and fulfil what at one time seemed to be my destiny to teach the subject, as my Aunt had before me, I would have then been able to answer my own questions. Would I have been as successful a teacher as she was? I feel it necessary to explain at this point that as a child I was sent to a Catholic Boarding school courtesy of Her Majesty's Armed Forces. My Aunt at the time, having entered the Convent as a Novice about 4 years after my mother had left school, was living and teaching at the sister Convent in Surrey, hence why I was sent to Dorset. But in spite of the best efforts by my parents to avoid the embarrassment of Helen ending up at the same school as me, fate laid its cards out and and she ended up as one of my teachers. She was gifted at teaching and she made the subject come alive even to the point of embarrassing me with stories of my mother as a child, much to the delight of my classmates, upon which I used to open my desk lid and try to hide under it. It was undoubtedly my most favourite subject at school though, and it goes without saying she was my favourite teacher in spite of everything. (I would like to add at this point that although I wanted to teach, I had no intention whatsoever of ever becoming a Nun!)

But instead of treading a path similar to hers I chose to turn my back on my destiny and I chose to leave school at 16, to do a year’s not so hard study at college to become a Secretary. Having met and married my husband I ended up working in banking for 23 years and studied in my spare time for a degree with the Open University. I also managed to make the precarious leap from Secretary to Analyst - which at that time seemed practically impossible due to the old fashioned way in which the male-dominated Bank was run at the time. But made it I did, and without wishing to sound immodest, I was damn good at what I did - until the Parkinson's struck that is.

So, here I am, fulfilling my destiny - alive (just about!), married, two children, a degree with the Open University together with a smattering of O and A levels, a handful of other qualifications relating to my profession, and 23 years loyal service to the bank with the Black Horse and a Scottish Widow. I had for a number of years been in a role I found fulfilling and that I was good at. My intention was always to retire at 50, which I managed to achieve two years early, but not for the reasons I envisaged. I always thought that when I retired I would be at that lovely stage in my life when my children are spreading their wings and being income independant would abandon the parental nest, leaving Tim and I to enjoy our well-earned retirement in peace and financial security, travelling the world and enjoying our Grand-Kids before infirmity struck us down in our old age. Instead though, fate has dealt us a curved ball, with infirmity striking before I had a chance to finish enjoying what should be my prime of life. Instead I am fighting a loosing battle against my mate Parkie (in spite of rigorous sessions at the gym) and coping with a brain at times befuddled as if drunk on life itself. On top of that is the prospect of one day in the future being dependant on my family and/or strangers for assistance in the fulfilment of my everyday basic needs. Horror of horrors - not if I have anything to do with it!

For the first time since leaving college aged 17, I am out of work, nothing doing apart from the odd bit of gardening, earning no money, stony broke but at least a roof over my head which is all paid for and which belongs solely to me and Tim. I can't even afford to replace my car, which is slowly falling to bits - like its owner! The day I retired I put my life plan through the shredder then on to the compost heap at the bottom of my garden, slowly being mulched away to become organic matter for my vegetable patch. Am I bored? Not yet, and I hope never to be. I have to take each day as it comes though, each morning on waking I fight a battle to gain control of my motor and non-motor functions, from the moment I fall out of bed and shuffle like an old lady to the bathroom to carry out my morning ablutions, to the moment I fall in to bed at day end, dog tired. Yet as I drift off into sleep, it is in the certain knowledge that as I hand over control of my mind and my body to my mate Parkie I face yet another night of either sleepless restlessness as tonight, or a night of nightmares and hallucinations, at times even thrashing about so much I inadvertently injure Tim. I seem to recallbeing told the night before last that Yes, there was a white cat sat on top of our bedroom door, and last night Tim telling me to jolly well shut up and to go back back to sleep! He was somewhat fed up, and I can't say I blame him, so am I!

I once heard Bryn Williams describe Parkinson's as being like having one's body slowly encased in concrete. A horrible prospect, but unfortunately true if Parkinson's isn't stopped in it's tracks and kicked in to touch - back into its box where it belongs!

Last Thursday

Last Thursday was, for many of us, a day like no other. Together with old friends and work colleagues, we paid our last respects to Professor Tony Atkinson. Tim and I had both worked for Tony, myself only a year, Tim – quite a few more than that. We knew it was going to be a well attended affair, but hadn't quite prepared ourselves for just how many people were there. On the way over, Tim and I tried to predict who we hoped would be there, and who maybe wouldn't. During the time that Tim worked for Tony he said that he didn't ever once recall Tony loosing his temper.

Tony had a great many friends and acquintances, and during the service as various individuals who knew him well stood up and spoke about Tony I began to realise just how little I knew – for example I didn't know he was a Queen fan. In a bizarre way the eulogies are a part of any funeral service I enjoy, especially if that someone is as colourful a character as Tony was. To say that he let the grass grow under his feet would definitely do him an injustice – he was a true trail blazer.

For many of us, it was a reunion quite unlike no other – old friendships from a good 20+ years ago renewed, gaps in our knowledge filled (for me this was particularly true and I have Mike H to thank for that one), quite a few faces forgotten dragged out of reluctant memory banks. I don't recall when we all started drifting apart, it seemed to happen gradually over the years as we left to pursue new avenues and achieve our destinies – so it was good to spend those few hours together again and recapture the closeness and friendships.

Typical of the team Tony had 25 years ago, we were the last ones standing whilst others around us left and went back to their own lives. There was a kind of reluctance to finish what had been a perfect day and hasty arrangements were made to adjourn to the Wyndham Arms in Salisbury. Tim and I declined – we needed to get home for Antonia (Elise was staying at a friends overnight), and I was beginning to feel the usual fatigue begin to set in. Basically, I needed my bed!

So, who was there that we hadn't seen in a few too many years? Roger H, Rigger, Ray, Dave S, Bob and Jean, Dave C, Roy, Paul, Nigel, Mike H, Sue, Zain, Alex, Helen, Melanie, Meg – these are just a few out of the so many, too many to mention! There were lots of hugs, lots of laughter, and a few tears. There were stories of great success, bought about by words of wisdom and encouragement from Tony. I think to me the one who made the greatest impact was Alex – if my memory is correct when we worked together Alex was a laboratory assistant, but on encouragement from Tony she went to University, got her degree closely followed by her PhD. As a result of that encouragement, Alex has had quite frankly an amazing career and has travelled the world many times over. For us it was especially good to catch up with Dave C – we haven't seen him since before Antonia was born, he was our Best Man when Tim and I married over 25 years ago.

A few people I recall from those days who were not there, for whatever reason that was – Sarah, Karen, Eric, Steve, Iqbail and a few others whose names I have forgotten!

To quote an e-mail received yesterday from Zain with which I whole heartedly agree:

"It's a strange thing to say but I actually enjoyed (!) the day and the fact that it was such a great send off for a truely lovely guy. I can only guess that Tony would have been hugely chuffed to know how much of an impact he had made on so many of us."

And God made little green apples (or did he?)

I love watching my children whilst they are fast asleep - they both look so angelic and butter wouldn't melt. Often being the first to wake up, the job of getting the girls up and dressed on a school morning tends to fall to me as the "morning person" of the household whilst Tim heads down to the kitchen and gets their lunch boxes sorted. But rather than my rushing about in headless chicken mode (once I have got moving that is which on a bad day can take a little while), they both tend to react better to the softly-softly approach. This is the path of least resistance, I have tried many different ways, and this approach is best in order to avoid an argument and a refusal to get up, which is both time-wasting and non-value added.

But I really don't know why, I occasionally feel like being mischeivous where I tickle Elise under the chin, whilst making soft baby noises - along the lines of  "who's my lickle ickle baby girl" and " cudja cudja coo" and other such non-sensicle statements like "here comes the tickle monster" ..... well, you should have the drift by now. I think it hilarious but Elise's reaction is never favourable, and on a good day she will cock one eye open, look at me and then turn over whilst muttering under her breath "For Gods sake Mother". On a bad day though, its a different matter altogether.............. well lets just say it makes for an interesting hour until she leaves the house to go to school. Sometimes the temptation not to block her nose or tickle her eyelashes is almost over-whelming. I have also thus far also resisted the temptation of rousing everybody (neighbours included) with a rendition of my newly acquired LSVT vocal exercises! My household is not a morning household regardless of the time of year and unless I want WWIII to break out under my roof, I tend to leave this treat until a more appropriate time of the day - normally when I have the place to myself.

Instead, the practical jokes are put to one side, and Antonia unwittingly rouses her sister from her slumber instead. Whilst she is still half-asleep, she instinctively goes in to cuddle-mode and I carry her in to her sister's room, these days with my knees buckling! As time goes on this is becoming more and more of a challenge, and one day she will just be too heavy! Antonia loves waking her sister, and she does this by nestling in with Elise whilst giving her the mother of all cuddles - what a way to wake up and I know Elise absolutely loves it.

But as sure as eggs are eggs and God made little green apples (or did he?) both my children are starting to spread their wings which will eventually lead to them living their own lives away from the family homestead. This is inevitable, as is the likelihood that the drugs regime I am on will over time cease to be as effective - when precisely is anybody's guess. Unless a way of halting or even reversing Parkinson's is found, my options will in time run out - like the grains of sand in a glass jar. I am not the only one to be facing this fate, there are hundreds of other PWP's who are on the same road, some ahead of me in the distance, others along-side and more following. I would like to point out here that I am not being negative - just realistic. However I don't like looking in to what the future holds too much, it really does scare me and it may never happen. Instead I just live my life for each day whilst making plans only for the near future, and I celebrate what each day has to offer. Being an independent lady (in character that is, sadly not in finances) I have made it clear that I do not want either of our children to stay at home once their education is finished. My work will not be done, and Tim and I will have failed as parents, unless they both go out and discover what the world has to offer. I don't want either to become my carer - that is so not an option and for me it will be allowing my mate Parkie to rule my life.

But, when all is said and done my children will always and forever be my precious babes, no matter where they are and what they do!

Sports Day

This blog is dedicated to Lawrie, a true gentle gentleman, who quietly slipped away from this world in to the next without warning in his sleep two days ago. Our thoughts and prayers are with Nancy at this unexpected turn of events, at a time when they were finalising plans to travel the world after retiring from their careers later this year.

With my children now being in seperate schools, I have wondered whether we would suffer the consequences of diary clashes especially with respect to the all important end of year Sports Day. This, to me, is the most important day in the school calendar. Being in possession of absolutely no sporting prowess what so ever, my parents showed little interest in this important day when I was growing up, being confident that I would always come last – and did! My sister, being at a different school to me, showed talent from an early age as a middle distance runner, but as a result also had to suffer the ignominy of my father standing on the sidelines bellowing at the top of his voice for her to “Get a Move on” and other such phrases! To my knowledge, she never ever failed to deliver and I know my parents were very proud of her achievements.

So on to 2011. Antonia's sports day took place yesterday having been postponed from last week due to inclement weather, Elise's is today. To say that Antonia absolutely loves Sports Day is an understatement. In her mind, it is not the winning that is important to her, it is the taking part. Her favourites seem to be the running race, and the all important team relay at the end. True to form, she delivered and performed as expected. On taking up the baton in the relay, with the largest smile she could muster and her face and eyes shining with the excitement of it all, she set off down the field at a fair pace. OK, so she wasn't running very fast, and I have no doubt that she wasn't achieving her true potential – but to her it wasn't important. In her eyes she was the winner and I wouldn't have been at all surprised if she had given high 5's all the way along with the cheering crowd. 

Elise, on the other hand, has inherited my sister's physique and talent for sports, and today will be her last Sports Day at Primary School. Elise has always done well on Sports Day – she is not only a strong contender, she also encourages others in her team to do as well, if not better. She is quite frankly sports mad, and I wouldn't be surprised if in time she inherits my sisters childhood nickname of “Muscles”. The past week or two has seen a lot of sporting activites in Elise's diary, including taking part in her very first mini-marathon last weekend. In spite of being given a training plan by her teacher, Elise's preparation for this event was minimal, but I needn't have worried – she came 4^th in a field of about 30 girls.

Having woken up early and checked the forecast, it looks the same as yesterday - the risk of some heavy showers. However, there is an additional snag in the plans. Elise, having been to gymnastics training last night, managed to pull a muscle in her back, and in spite of sleeping well she is still in pain this morning. Although she puts on a brave face, we know that she is worried and upset about the possibility that she may not be able to run later today. Being single minded though, Elise later decided that she would run and took part in her two favourite events – the middle distance race and the sprint. The sprint saw her come in well ahead of her opponents, whilst she timed her race beautifully in the middle distance event, just about pipping one of her closest friends to first place. The comradeship and sporting behaviour was good to see as both girls immediately shook hands and congratulated each other on the close finish and I am so proud of them both. 

As for the weather, it was the same pretty much on both days - overcast but dry, with the showers holding off until the events had finished. And as for me and Tim, we would have not have had the last two days any different – in our eyes our children are both winners and we are proud of them.

The end of an Era

The start of this week brought Tim and I the sad news that someone who made a tremendous difference to our lives 25 years ago, when we first married, had passed away unexpectedly, leaving behind his wife, son and grandchildren. The person to whom I refer is Professor Tony.

So, where do I start? With this there is no start, just an ending, as I try to wind my memory back to those early days with Tim and try to recall when and where I first met Tony, or for that matter even became aware of him. The only thing I can say is that I was young, naïve, and very much in love with Tim. My life totally changed when Tim and I started dating, and the following years were a tremendous amount of fun, as our lives – both in and out of the work place – totally revolved around the microbial research establishment where Tim, and I (for a brief time) both worked. When I look back over those years, I have such happy memories, and given the opportunity to turn the clock back, it would be to that time. There is absolutely nothing that I would change, they were truly happy days.

Tim, and myself for only a year, both worked in the largest division, headed up by Tony. I had previously been working in a different department as a secretary, but on hearing that I was experiencing harrassment problems, Tony offered me an olive branch by way of a place as one of the two secretaries in his team primarily supporting his Deputy. He asked no questions - he didn't need to. I only stayed there a year. It wasn't that I was unhappy, I just needed to move on and Tony was understanding when I handed in my notice. It was blindingly obvious that my future was definitely not in micriobial research. Having struggled to pass O'level Human Biology at school, I was absolutely no scientist. Microbiology, to me, was a foreign language that I struggled to get to grips with and after a year of working in Tony's office, he didn't bat an eyelid when I resigned. To Tony, it was probably a tremendous relief as my shorthand was so atrocious that on the very few occasions I took dictation from him I would soon be knocking on his door asking him to translate the alien hierogliphics I had scribbled on my notepad.

Tony was dynamic, forthright, visionary and incredibly loyal to the team he built up over the years. They were exciting times – it was a time when a lot seemed to be happening in the field of research, and great progress was being made. Yes, Tony demanded a lot from his team, but he also gave back so much. We were all his extended family. If anyone had a problem, no matter how large or small, either personal or in the workplace, he would always be there, to offer support. To his team, Tony was The Don, The Godfather.

As Director of the largest division, Tony was incredibly adept at obtaining funding for research in to such diseases as Aids, Cancer, possibly even Parkinson's(?), and there were many fresh faced graduates who owe their careers to the opportunities that Tony offered. Without his help, there is no way Tim and I could have bought our first house together as he found funding, goodness knows where, so that Tim could continue to work in his team, and we could obtain a mortgage. It is from that time, those precious years, that we made lifelong friends and hold so many happy memories.

Over the years, the establishment evolved and as so often happens, many of us gradually drifted away. In time even Tony left and moved on to pastures new as he set up a company near to his home. But he and his wife always stayed in touch, even if was only by sending an annual Christmas card, as in our case.

So, it was with great sadness that we heard from a friend of ours yesterday that Tony had suddenly passed away. This evening has been spent on the phone talking to old friends, finding out what happened, and reminiscing. In a weird kind of way, I have found it comforting looking back over those years, when we were young and invincible, where the weekend started at noon on Friday at the pub, and Sunday nights would be the only night of the week when we didn't go out. Tim and I will be going to the funeral, and in a perverse kind of way, we're looking forward to it, as Tony's team gather together from far and wide for the final time, to remember the old days, to pay homage to a truly great man and to mark the end of an era.

Rest in peace Tony, rest in peace.

Deal? Or No Deal?

"Deal? Or No Deal?" I love watching that programme! It's just about the only programme on the telly at present that I like to watch and most days I can be found in my kitchen after picking up the girls from school, preparing supper whilst avidly watching the twists and turns of fate which leads the contestant of the day to second-guess which box contains the life changing sum, whilst they try to out-smart The Banker. It is interesting to watch the reactions of the contestants as the dreams on which their future stands or falls are either fulfilled or disappear in to thin air. It is a game of pure chance where the cash prizes range from winning a cool quarter million to becoming the latest member of the 1p club, with the reactions of all either witnessing or taking part reflecting the mood of the contestant. Each contestant gets just one crack at the whip and in general most seem to be happy that they have won an amount of money which is life changing or goes some way towards fulfilling a dream or an ambition. But, to me, the most bizarre thing is the sheer satisfaction if they have "spanked the banker" (!), even if that amount is not significant. Just the experience, for me, would be enough.

In my life, even if I won that cool quarter of a million, it would not be enough to buy me a cure to Parkinson's, but it would certainly help take the edge off the bitter pill I had to swallow when diagnosed. And it would most certainly not go unnoticed if a sum like that were bequeathed to Parkinson's research.

When I first started watching Deal? Or No Deal? I was totally confused by the game, and the same goes for Parkinson's in the early days after diagnosis. I still have so much to find out about this unwelcome intruder in to my life even as I come up to my second anniversary when I was diagnosed. In the early days I rather arrogantly thought I knew it all - in that it was an illness which afflicted the older generation and comprised a tremor. But now I have gradually came to the realisation that this is an illness where you need to lay your cards publicly on the table and try to make the best out of what you have been dealt. Are you going to accept the unwelcome intruder in to your life? Or are you going to bury your head in the sand? By grudgingly rolling out the welcome mat, you are taking a big step towards accepting the cards that fate has dealt you, and certainly in the early days helps to retain control over your life. By burying your head in the sand gives Parkinson's the edge to take over your life which submerges you in a sand pit from which it is harder and harder to climb out.

As I said, I knew next to nothing when I was diagnosed - but know so much more now. To help those who have little or no knowledge of Parkinson's, I have written a short quiz to test you, which instead of being called "Deal? Or No Deal?" is titled "Fact? Or Fiction?". I wonder how many Noel Edmonds would be able to answer and the answers given are as variable as the chances dealt in Deal? Or No Deal?

Here are my questions:

1. Parkinson’s does not discriminate against nationality, race, creed, colour of skin, age, or sex. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
2. The more obvious motor symptoms of Parkinson’s are preceded by a myriad of non-motor symptoms, which can pre-exist for a number of years. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
3. Parkinson’s can sometimes be misdiagnosed as something else. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
4. On diagnosis it is likely that 80% of the brain cells in the niagra region of your brain controlling the release of dopamine to your body will have already died off. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
5. Parkinson’s is often diagnosed by clinical observation. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
6. The drugs to control the symptoms are hideously expensive and a drain on NHS resources. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
7. There is no charge payable for prescriptions for a Person with Parkinson's in England. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
8. Parkinson’s is a degenerative illness. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
9. Parkinson’s is a contagious illness from which you will die. Fact? Or Fiction?
   
   
10. Parkinson’s is currently incurable. Fact? Or Fiction?

How did you do?

Taking each question in turn, here’s my response. If your viewpoint is different to mine, that is fine. You are entitled to your opinions, I am entitled to mine - I won't take it personally. If it engenders a healthy debate, that would be fantastic!

1. Parkinson’s does not discriminate against nationality, race, creed, colour of skin, age, or sex. Fact – it is totally non-discriminatory, just as the boxes are which the contestants pick at random before Deal gets underway. Before I was diagnosed I had always thought Parkinson’s afflicted the older generation, and favoured men over women - little did I know and I apologise to those those of the opposite sex who are more senior to me in years.
   
   
2. The more obvious motor symptoms of Parkinson’s are preceded by a myriad of non-motor symptoms, which can pre-exist for a number of years. Fact – non-motor symptoms can be things like a chronic sleep disorder, a gradual loss of sense of smell and taste, difficulty swallowing, dribbling, anxiety, depression, lack of facial expression, monotone voice…. etc. (And I do so hate it when I dribble..... eugghhh.) On diagnosis a Parkie-person will often realise they may have been suffering from this for quite some time. Further information about motor and non-motor symptoms can be found on www.epda.eu.com, www.parkinsons.org.uk, and www.nhs.uk
   
   
3. Parkinson’s can sometimes be misdiagnosed as something else. Fact – it can be misdiagnosed as stress, depression, frozen shoulder, even essential tremor
   
   
4. On diagnosis 80% of the brain cells in the niagra region of your brain controlling the release of dopamine to your body will have already died off. Fact!
   
   
5. Parkinson’s is often diagnosed by clinical observation. Fact – if there is any doubt, this can be confirmed by a DAT scan
   
   
6. The drugs to control the symptoms are hideously expensive and a drain on NHS resources. Fact!
   
   
7. There is no charge payable for prescriptions for a Person with Parkinson's in England. I would love to say this is Fact, but it isn't, it's Fiction – the current list defining which illnesses/diseases are eligible for free prescriptions on the NHS is out of date and long over-due a review. I understand this had been on the agenda under the last Government, but is now shelved for the foreseeable future. I could launch off on a political tirade at this point, but I'm not one to take sides, and it would not hold any value
   
   
8. Parkinson’s is a degenerative illness which first affects one half of the body before taking over the other half. Fact – a Parkie-person will eventually require help with the most simplest of tasks like getting out of bed, getting dressed, eating food, going to the bathroom. But it doesn't only attack a PwP physically, it can also affect mental health, self-confidence, self-esteem, and even family relationships
   
   
9. Parkinson’s is a contagious illness from which you will die. Fiction – what it does do though is increase the risk of complications arising from other illnesses, and in a minority of cases can be genetic handed down the generations. With regard to complications – I have been there, I have that t-shirt. 10 months ago I was haemorraghing so badly following a major op that I thought I was on my way to meet my maker. I will be eternally grateful to the doctors and nurses at Dorchester hospital who were able to stop the bleeding and piece me back together again
   
   
10. Parkinson’s is currently incurable. Fact – but a great deal of research is going on out there, and I am positive that one day, some day, a cure will be found to not only halt the disease in its tracks, but also to also reverse the effects by renewal of those much needed brain cells. It may not be there in my lifetime, or yours, but I hope and pray it will be there for the next generation who have yet to be diagnosed.

As for me, I have Parkinson’s, I am in my 40’s, pre-retirement age and female - so bang goes my theory that this is an illness only afflicting older men. Looking back over the years, I can identify the times when non-motor and motor symptoms crept in to my life. My consultant thinks I have had Parkinson's for about 5 years now, but I beg to differ, especially with regard to the non-motor symptoms.

Do I want a cure? Oh yes please. At present I can do so much more than I could 2 years ago – I can walk, I can talk, I can express my emotions, I don't fall over or sound drunk even when stone cold sober, and I can even type – all thanks to a hideous cocktail of drugs, which come rolled up with their own suite of side-effects just to complicate matters. But these do not furnish me with a cure – all it buys me is an indeterminate period of time – time to spend with my husband and children, time to raise awareness, time to raise money for vital research. I have been lucky enough to take early retirement from my job so that I can do these things before Parkinson’s overtakes the effectiveness of the cocktail of drugs I currently take.

And as to the future – I think it futile to try to predict what I will be like in 10 years time – I just won't go there, it’s too depressing.

Instead I prefer to live my life one day at a time. I have chosen to be positive, and exercising my right as a woman to contradict myself, I very much believe that one day, some day, either in the immediate or not-so-immediate future I may be cured and will no longer have to rely on drugs to get me through the days and interminable nights.

So, here’s the Deal – just as the Banker in Deal occasionally offers the contestant the opportunity to swop their box, I am willing to swop, just for one day, my Parkinson’s without the drugs with the well-being of an MP or MEP, so that that individual can understand what life is like for me as a Person with Parkinson’s, and I can take a much needed holiday from what this disease is doing to my body. Then maybe, just maybe, that understanding will raise the profile of Parkinson's resulting in a move up the political agenda, both within the UK and the EU. If this was a work of Fiction that swop could be arranged. But sadly this isn’t a work of Fiction – this is the real world, this is a Fact. In fact, this is my life I'm talking about, and the lives of the hundreds and thousands of People with Parkinson's out there. For me and all those out there who have Parkinson's, it is time to get a move on and find a cure. Find a cure to an illness which holds the generic label of "Parkinson's", but is definitely not generic in the random way it affects us all.