About me

I have been writing poetry and stories since I was a child, and a love of reading was instilled in me from an early age. I am passionate about writing, and hope you enjoy the books I have written. Whilst most of you sleep soundly in your beds, like many Parkinson’s patients, insomnia dictates, so during those hours that sleep eludes me, the house is tranquil and quiet, an atmosphere perfect to immerse myself in writing. My life has been a series of strange events, which have without doubt contributed to my creativity. To publish anything is to bear one’s soul to the world. It is to stand naked and let everyone see who you really are. I have poured my heart and soul out on paper and I hope to share this journey, immersing you in a story, capturing your attention and firing the imagination. Through my writing and public speaking I hope to bring greater awareness to the general public about living with chronic disease.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Parkinson's isn't sexy!

Parkinson's is about as sexy as a pair of warm flannel striped pyjamas or long thermal underwear. The other night as I was getting ready for bed, catching an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the mirror; to say I was shocked would be the understatement of the year. Who was that hunched old lady staring back at me through the mirror with a glazed expressionless face, and aching arms that hung limply at her side? Of course I knew it was 'me', but the transformation that has occurred over the last few years is a hard pill to swallow.
When I last had a haircut, finding it difficult to describe what I actually wanted, I took with an old photo of myself to show the hairdresser the cut I had in mind. The young man looked at the photo and asked "Who is this?" It was at that point, I realised my idea that had appeared so good at the time, now seemed ridiculous, as if I was asking him to miraculously turn back the clock and work magic with his scissors restoring me to my former self. I sheepishly answered "It's me". He looked amazed and did a double take, staring long and hard at the picture and then back at me, not quite sure what to say next. But the very obvious question quickly followed, "How old were you in this picture?" Now I felt like I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. Why on earth had I brought along this picture, when my hair, now turning grey and wiry with a mind of its own, probably couldn't be sculptured into the style I once had and that suited me so well. "I was 28" I muttered under my breath, as I caught an incredulous glance on my hairdresser's face, clearly dubious he could recreate what I had asked for, and probably thinking "Wow is this lady in denial, or what?"
The hairdresser did the best he could, and the cut was very nice, but that night as I went to bed, the same old lady stared back at me through the mirror. I have come to the conclusion it doesn't matter what hairstyle I have, nor if my nightwear is lacy and risqué, I still look as thrilling and appealing as a cold shower on a chilly night! Parkinson's is definitely not sexy!

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