Fish Water
I am walking down the 5th floor staircase of the parking garage at the MGM casino near National Harbor, its after midnight and the puddle I just stepped in smells oddly of fish. “Walking” in this case is a euphemism. I am more than two hours late on my Parkinson’s medicine. And what I am doing is more like vertical crawling. I’m pushing myself along using my black metal cane, dragging the toes of my left foot along the rough surface of the cement, but the discomfort from it is running only about seventh among the various pain points pleading for attention. I’m trying to make my way to my car on the fourth floor. But the fact that it’s not going well is evident by the fact that I’m starting to visualize a parking lot employee finding me in the morning crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. On the positive side I’m visualizing that when they find me I’m still alive but soaked in fish water.
When Parkinson’s is in control, my legs stiffen, my toes clinch and my left shoulder is thrown back, so it appears from the waist down I’m inching along in one direction while from the waist up I’m fighting valiantly but unsuccessfully to turn left.
My appearance isn’t improved by the fact I’m barefoot and carrying my shoes because the pain of wearing them slows me down from a slow crawl nearly to a dead stop. Top it off with long wild grey hair and a sort of desperate grimace etched on my face and the package explains why the lady driving a parking garage cart appeared to speed up a bit as she drove past.
In the movie “Men in Black,” a large alien, upon its death, is revealed to be controlled by a tiny alien strapped into a control capsule located in the larger one’s head.
At this point, I feel like my tiny controls have broken connections with the blundering, exhausted body I’m trying to steer. Now I am simply trying to encourage the body to move its legs and keep making progress. I emerge on the fourth floor and my car is still 100 yards away in the huge garage. But I’ve caught a break. A chain link fence lines one wall, allowing me to use my arms to help propel me. I begin clicking the gadget with my car keys so I’ll see the lights flash of the car nearby and be encouraged. But it doesn’t light up so I tell myself to keep walking I’m drenched in sweat when I finally see my car 15 feet away. I don’t cry with relief. I simply crawl in take an emergency pill which is exactly like swallowing beach sand and test my legs and arms to see if I can drive.
