I walked a lot of the way home; forcing myself to look on the bright side; trying to convince myself that at least “Parkinson’s” sounded like a good British sort of illness. It was not after all an Alzheimers, a Crohns or a Creutzfeldt-Jakob.  It did not sound too painful either unlike other possibles such as Multiple Sclerosis, Typhoid, or Deep Vein Thrombosis with an Acute Pulmonary Embolism.  At least I had a disease which sounded palatable.

But I was clutching at straws; hoping that the symptoms of my condition were as innocuous as its name. The only thing that felt positive in my day was that I did not have something from which I was going to die.  Also, Parkinson’s, or PD as it was referred to, seemed to be an illness which a lot of people had and it was therefore likely to be well treated. These were just streaks of grey in the darkness that lay ahead.

At the time, I was living in a basement flat in Pimlico which my friend and fellow Chartered Surveyor Davey Ads (David Adams) owned and also occupied.  It was here I sat in quiet contemplation not really knowing what to do with myself.  The day had washed my spirit clean of any kind of emotion. I felt detached; as if I was standing back and analysing my own life dispassionately.  It was not a very constructive thing to do at that precise moment, but then I had little grasp of anything much today.  My trance-like actions since the diagnosis seemed to be pre-ordained by some higher authority. I did not make any conscious decisions.  I just operated on auto-pilot.

I could make no sense of it.  I had not even started my life yet. I had not found my niche or my purpose.  So far, all I had accumulated was a sense of fun, and a sound knowledge of rental values of offices in the West End of London.  If my useful life was, to all intents and purposes, now over, how could I underpin the rest of my days based on a pride of knowing that air-conditioned offices in Wigmore Street could be rented for as little as £25 per square foot. Granted, my skills as a Chartered Surveyor extended further than this, but would I ever get to use them as my friends and colleagues would.  And while they would all progress to untold success and fortune; while they all got married and started families; I would be forever betrothed to a degenerative neurological disorder and find myself on a fast track to obsolescence.

I felt suddenly suffocated by my demons.  Parkinson’s was the stuff of nightmares except that when I woke up from this strange and distant reverie, the reality of my situation would be even worse.  Everything I had done to date suddenly seemed to be worthless. It all counted for nothing. 

Yesterday I had potential. Today everything felt useless.  Yesterday, I had the best of my life ahead of me. Today that prospect seemed to have gone.

I went to the kitchen and opened the door of the fridge in the hope that something within it would fill the gaping void in my stomach.  I realised as I perused the contents that I was not hungry.  It had been a mistake. The gaping void that I felt in the pit of my stomach was more a reflection of my feelings about my future.  Instead, I chose a carton of grapefruit juice.  My hand twitched into life and moved towards the carton. As I lifted the container it wobbled slightly in my hand. A further confirmation of my diagnosis.  There seemed to be constant reminders everywhere.  I looked at the 1 litre container. I would not have been surprised to see the words "You have Parkinson’s" on it. 

Four words on the carton of grapefruit juice seemed to be vying for my attention. "Shake well before use."  The words seemed to trigger something within me; making me want to withdraw to a time and place where such a phrase was not steeped in irony. I didn’t want to be associated with this word "shake".  Shaking had nothing to do with me or my life. I wanted to ignore it; shut it out.  I wanted it to be yesterday again. 

The clatter of something or someone falling down the steps outside jolted me into the present.  I went to the door to investigate.

I found him in a crumpled, tangled heap; all briefcase, plastic bag and suit.

"Ads?"  I said, concerned.

"Hello." He gurgled.  At least somebody has had a good day, I thought.

After a while, he gathered himself up and bundled through the front door as if he was two people trying to get through at the same time.

“I’ve had a……bsholutely……terrible time.”  His eyes moved slowly as if he was trying to familiarise himself with his own flat.  He made a lunge for his post, which was sitting on the dining table and he started inspecting the letter fronts searching for clues on who had sent them. Realising that he was unable to focus, he pushed them away in disgust.

“I should have been home hours ago.”  His words were fumbled and slurred. “But my glarsh wouldn’t empty. Shumbuddy kept filling it up.”

“I had to go to the Dozer Street Wine Bar and then getta taxshi home.”

Use of the words “Dover Street Wine Bar” was a measure of Davey Ads’ level of inebriation. He only went to the “DSWB” when he was on a real bender.

He opened up his plastic bag and pulled out a half-eaten Doner kebab.  Another sign.  He was not going to feel good in the morning.  But then, nor would I.

As Davey Ads munched contentedly on his supper he caught me reflecting on my day, and something clicked in his mind.

"How wosh your trip to th’ospital?"  He asked.

"Not great."

"Do they know what it is?"

"Yes.  It’s Parkinson’s Disease."

There was a silence while my words sank in.  The combination of alcohol and shock gave him a look of total befuddlement.  In fact, so ludicrous was his expression, as he battled to get a grip on himself that he saw me smirk.  Davey Ads then did something that I really was not expecting.  He laughed.  It was one of his deep gurgling guffaws.  The absurdity of the situation set me off laughing too.  I doubted whether anyone had been laughed at, having imparted such news before.

The hysterics subsided.  He staggered over towards me and gave me a drunken hug, overwhelming my senses with the stench of kebab and putrid toxins accumulated from his night out.

It is difficult to explain how anyone could laugh at my diagnosis and for it to be the right thing to do.  Of course, it was easier to deal with in the knowledge that he was off his trolley, but his cackling had cheered me up.  It had released me from a detached, almost zombie-like state.  It was typical of Davey Ads to manage to cheer me up no matter what the circumstances.  This had been by far his biggest test. 

Lying in bed that night, I had one more positive thought to cling onto.  Whatever happened, I knew my family and friends would not fail me.  I would not have to go through this alone.

Despite his response this evening, I knew that Davey Ads would be devastated by my diagnosis.  It was better that he didn’t show it.  I needed the people around me to ignore Parkinson’s.  Maybe then, I could do the same.

I made a conscious decision that for the time being, I would close it out of my mind.  I would tell a few people who ought to know, but other than that, I would carry on. For the time being, at least, I would hide behind a mental barricade where I could continue pretending I was indestructible. 

But the state of mind was a brittle one and I wondered how long it would take for it to be snapped in two. I had no idea what lay ahead…….