When I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 1991, Tracy and I were not even thirty years old, and newly married with a young son. I had been experiencing muscle pain and a slight tremor in my finger, and on Tracy’s urging, I went to see a neurologist. After a cursory series of dexterity tests, he confidently diagnosed me with young onset Parkinson’s disease. I couldn’t process what he was saying; only snippets of his pronouncement got through. I do recall him telling me that I might be able to work for ten more years. I was twenty-nine.
