“What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate”
Captain, Cool Hand Luke
On this blog I never recommend activities or medications to ease Parkinson’s. There is a reason for this. I am NOT a doctor—-nor do I play one on tv. ASIDE ALERT! Growing up the only doctor I fantasized becoming was Dr. Kildare, played by Richard Chamberlain, 1961 to 1965. Somewhere in the bowels of my vinyl record collection is a forty-five, “Three Stars Will Shine Tonight,” the theme song of Dr. Kildare sung by Richard Chamberlain….not particularly sung well, but eat your hearts out you seventy somethings….
However, I have discovered one tactic that makes doing everyday things like dressing and getting in and out of a chair/car/bed a little easier. Parkinson’s affects the nerves and thus the muscles are not receiving the messages they should. It is as if the evil sign of the brain orders the muscles, “You move one inch and I’ll deprive you of dopamine.” “You pick up that shoelace with two fingers and you are in big trouble!” In the movie Cool Hand Luke, the Prison Warden, the Captain, frustrated by Luke’s frequent escape attempts, beats him and shouts out, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” That is the Parkinson’s scenario exactly. So, to improve communication, I talk to my limbs. The good side of my brain ignores the evil side’s threats and tells the muscle, “Do this!” I discovered this when, my left foot shaking seemingly uncontrollably, would stop when I commanded it to. “Stop left foot!” And, as if realizing that my brain was not fooling around, my left foot would stop shaking. Like a young child who shirks off the first warning in short time, my left foot is back at it again in a little while, but I need those respites at times. So I summon my best teaching voice and order my foot to cease and desist.
But, after years of learning from teaching, I offer the carrot as well as wield the stick. I go out on a limb to order my limbs, and I am in a constant conversation with my extensions when I dress. “Come on leg, you can do it, just lift up and slide down into that Fruit of the Loom brief.” “Okay fingers, let’s go! Wrap those shoelaces around each other and tie those sneakers down.” “Okay right hand, you can do it boy, slip that sock over your toes and pull it down over the foot. Foot, you stay still!” “Finger, good fellow, you pressed the right button on the tv remote on the third try!” We all have gradually grown as a team, even bringing in the non limbs. “Back, you listening? Straighten up and pull yourself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Soon I will be telling Feet to stand you up.”
I have tried the same strategy on my vocal chords, but that is more challenging. Part of it is the Parkinson’s, but most of it is my conversational style. In discussions, especially with friends, I think about statements already made, and when I finally decide to make a pithy contribution, the group has moved on to other topics. My slowness to interject means I am ten minutes and twenty topics behind other people. The “relevant” factor is usually long gone. I have tried communicating with my vocal chords, “Come on, guys, say it now!,” but the lines of communication are not always operative, those particular neural pathways clogged or disrupted or something.
Gone are the days of jumping into a pair of shorts and pulling over a sweatshirt to go out on the basketball court to shoot hoops, without ever thinking the process or talking to my body. Then again, gone are the days of jumping.
One truism I have learned from the Parkinson’s. This day, this very moment, might be the best I feel for the rest of my life. And if I need to develop better communication skills between my brain and my body, then I am “all in.” “Come on, finger, hit that “.” keyboard key.”