I didn’t have to keep going, I didn’t have to get up every day, hell I didn’t even have to go to the bathroom if I didn’t want to, and many strong men and women I met during those years resigned themselves to that life. All hope is lost as slowly your own body becomes your tomb, and your friends and family watch as the light drains from your eyes. Each day that passes is another nail in the coffin, pinning you down so that in the end even the simplest of acts is a struggle.
I did my best though; to get up every day, to do all that I could on my own. I had to, to keep my reputation, to make the people believe that I could carry on, as if I had never developed that crippling disease, which Death had taken as his surname, Parkinson’s.
And they had loved me even more for it. It was exciting to them, it was drama, and it was something out of the ordinary. I was the embodiment of twentieth century political correctness, an oxymoron set against the rest of history’s leaders. A diseased woman, leading the country as a major political party leader. To the public it was like watching a soap or a reality TV show. The tabloids giving them constant updates on my state of health throughout the seasons. And as they changed so did I. Growing weaker with the falling leaves of autumn, and the slow but sure decent into winter, I was dying I knew that. It became painfully clear to me after having the most daring and experimental treatment that money could buy. There was no possible way to stop it, only slow the process, but never halt it completely. It showed me how little we really know about that such precious organ that sits protected at the top of the tower of our body, shielded in our skull like a king. It’s effects on us, how and what it really does, still such a mystery that any disease or illness that afflicts it takes us right back to the dark ages.
Maybe I would have given up in the end, but I was saved, I was given another chance to make a difference, for what to me seemed like divine intervention at the time, although now I know it was just part of the ‘Big Plan’ for somebody else.607Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOFSUimTvMA
We are all part of a larger picture in some way I believe; but usually from where the majority of us stand we’re just too far away to see any of it in great detail. The further up the ladder you go though the more defined the picture becomes. You start to notice the more discreet components of the painting, the intricate bits that the artist has deliberately made difficult to find. These particular niceties can only ever be found one of two ways: one, you’re in on it with the artist, and in some small way you had something to do with his creation, or two you’ve pushed your nose into it and in the process smeared the picture, not by much, but now it’s no longer perfect, and to repair it may take some time. Now smearing the picturing isn’t a good idea, it’s going to piss someone off, whether it’s the artist himself, or just the guy who buys his coffee. Once you’ve made yourself visible in their picture though it takes a real Houdini to disappear from their sight.607Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXfYP4qfyQl
It seems unfair really that I had become involved in it all, I didn’t ask for it, and I only stumbled into it because I was pushed. By the time I had realised what I had fallen into, the picture was looking pretty bad; it was no Monet that was for sure, more of a Francis Bacon, twisted and warped out of shape, the original image still visible but clearly not going in the direction that nature would have taken it.607Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡty9wpTCSJN
What did I have to lose though? I was going to die anyway, and so if I died in the process of stepping into this mess then hey, at least I’d end up going by someone else’s hand and not the betrayal of my own body closing its grip around my throat. That I think is partly why he chose me, there were of course other reasons, such as my political position and influence, but I’m pretty sure that somewhere in that great mind of his he thought that doing this would at least give me the chance to really live again.607Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6r4sFOr37E
When Doctor Farooq Nadir concealed his life’s work inside a new experimental tablet intended to cure Parkinson’s he changed everything for me; his dark leathery palms, that I would later come to know so well, caressing his masterpiece gently before he finally packed it away, burying it in darkness until it reached its destination. In that act he knew he had condemned himself to a similar fate; floating into the darkness, hoping to finally find peace. 607Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcYrdRRdmDe
As I took the box from my son and read the prescription, it shook in my trembling hands; the tablets rattling in their foil packaging, shaking the world with them.
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