The bin

JON: Another busy week in flat land. First I had a meeting with my boss and a guy from Human Resources where we assessed the chances of my returning to productive work from my employers’ perspective. In brief, not a snow ball’s chance in hell

The next day brought a visit with the health insurance company’s pet doctor who again rated me as 0% fit.

So there you have it. I’m past it, superfluous, outmoded, passé, redundant, over, unnecessary, not fit for purpose, rejected, dejected and pointless. What do I do now, what do I do next? And will I be able to afford to do it, whatever it is? The rules that determine what sort of benefit I might receive seem Byzantine, but with luck and a following wind all should come clear in the next month or six.

The meetings went entirely as I had expected, so my reaction to them has come as a bit of a shock. This is the outcome I want - I want to get closure from a difficult situation with work, I want to get a disability pension, I want to have this whole process over with. The only snag is that now the opportunity has arrived I feel labeled. I was OK with ‘he’s been off work for a lo-o-o-ong time because he’s got Parkinson’s, poor sod’. But ‘he’s on disability with a progressive neurological disorder and will probably never write another piece of software, never design another experiment, and soon may no longer be able to put on his own socks’ – well, that is going to take a bit of getting used to.

I need to say to myself 10 times a day: ‘I’m a guy with Parkinson’s, and its OK, and today will be the best day of my life’ – which is true, because it’s all downhill from here. But if I say it quickly enough, I may not notice the last bit. Perhaps I am actually ready for some happy pills...

MARIE: If it wasn’t for this blog, I wouldn’t know half of what goes on inside Jon. I ask – open questions, searching questions, leading questions – but much of the time the only answers I get back are ‘perhaps, a bit’ or ‘nah, not really’ or words to similar un-informative effect.

Like earlier today, when I had a go at Jon for not helping out more around the house, saying how unfair it is that he gets to lie in bed and listen to the radio while I tear around the place with my mop and duster. And then I discover in his blog text that while I was complaining about the minor inconveniences of my day, he was sitting there quietly feeling that his entire life is being thrown on the scrapheap. How sensitive and supportive was that?

One more ‘gift’ of Parkinson’s: you get a lot of practice so you end up good at forgiving. Today I am on the receiving end.