“I mean to grow old – really old”.

It was Father’s Day 2001. I remember it well. The day my wife and I decided to tell our two kids that I had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.

“We have something to tell you.” Pause. “I have Parkinson’s Disease.”

An even longer pause.

The colour drained from the face of our son aged 26; he left the room visibly upset. His father was not indestructible after all. Our daughter 28 burst into tears as did our daughter-in-law.

Another long pause. I broke the silence.

“Parkinson’s is a degenerative disease but I’m not dying. I’m not too badly affected at this stage; in fact I’m fit and well. Nobody will notice the difference.”

“Damn” quipped our daughter. “How much longer will I have to wait for my inheritance? At least you’ll get a disabled parking sticker. Good one Dad!”

We all laughed. She is still waiting and if I have anything to do with it, she’ll be waiting for a long time yet.

It was true. I was indestructible. I’d played football, tennis and cricket. In fact my son who played cricket for the same club gave the game away at 30 I am still playing. I’d never smoked and drank only socially. I’d never been seriously ill, worked hard and was impervious to stress.

So what happened?

Over a period of about 10 years I noticed a marked deterioration in strength on my right side accompanied by persistent shoulder and neck soreness. I could only throw a cricket ball 20 or 30 metres and could no longer hit a forcing shot. I couldn’t even underarm a cricket ball accurately around the field back to the bowler.

Some days I felt extremely weary and carried my feet like leaden weights. My balance was not quite as sound and I stumbled occasionally albeit ever so slightly. Climbing ladders was not accomplished with surety any more.

My hand writing had become even worse at times not even I could decipher the spider-like crawl of letters. My general movement became a little ponderous and deliberate. I cradled my right arm when I ran and didn’t swing it when I walked. The top button of my shirt was a bugger to do up, as was the button on my left cuff.

I purchased an electric toothbrush because cleaning my teeth had become an exercise requiring greater dexterity than I could muster. I even started to shave left-handed. I started to take my time. I just slowed down.

All these changes were subtle and, at the time, of no consequence. I was getting older. That’s what older people do. They slow down. Tire more easily. Can’t compete as fiercely as they had once been able to do.

My self-diagnosis was tennis elbow but after many weeks of ineffective treatment including wrist and elbow orthotics my physiotherapist referred me to my GP. He suggested I request a scan to discover what was really causing my feeble and sore right arm.

My trusted doctor of 30 years, the man who had delivered our children, made the diagnosis in less than one minute. He asked me to squeeze his hand; he asked me if I swung my right arm; he asked me if my handwriting had deteriorated. “I think you’ve got Parkinson’s” he said matter-of factly. “Let’s get you off to a neurologist and find out.”

And that was that.

My neurologist confirmed the diagnosis and arranged for me to have an MRI.

After my first two appointments I asked to be referred to a different specialist and 12 months later on September 14th 2002 I sat where you are sitting now at the Recently Diagnosed Seminar.

In fact my wife and I sat somewhat underwhelmed. Where were all the trembling old people? Indeed, we found it difficult on our table to distinguish the PLWP from their carers.

Since that period of discovery and initial fear, nothing much has changed. I retired at 55 (which I was going to do anyway) but still work as a management and training consultant both here and interstate. We travel overseas as often as we can afford and I am planning to play my 40th season of cricket starting in a few weeks.

I have never been busier – working, researching family history, volunteering for several community organisations including Parkinson’s Victoria and meandering up the street for a morning cup of coffee while I do the crossword and Sudoku puzzles.

I go to an adult fitness class twice a week to play basketball, soccer, run, stretch and lift weights. Once a fortnight I relax and ease my tight muscles with a remedial massage. I know I am fortunate to be so healthy.

So what has changed?

I struggle to lift and hold my beautiful but wriggly 18-month-old grandson. I fiddle painfully with small change and know my right arm and hand is becoming weaker and weaker. Mishandling cutlery means cold soup. I have become more left-handed in everything I do. I’m generally more clumsy and take an eternity to put on my batting gloves and pads.

Sometimes I wake at night burning like a furnace. I’ve developed adult acne. I know the location of every public toilet in Melbourne. I have had to add more fibre to my diet. My calf muscles cramp. I go to bed never before midnight and turn in bed like the Queen Mary! I cry more spontaneously and gulp the occasional word when speaking. I now have a legitimate excuse not to wear a collar and tie.

The medication I was first prescribed precipitated out-of-character compulsive and addictive behaviours requiring counselling and personal determination to overcome. Not to mention an urgent change in medication!

Otherwise I am fine. Looking forward to my second grandchild in a few months and hoping my daughter can at last find the man of her dreams.

I wait expectantly for what lies around the corner. Not fearfully. Expectantly.

I just love a challenge and am determined to grow old with my friends and family – and I mean really old.

Peter  2007