You might remember that one good day, without even asking ‘by your leave,’ Mr Parkinson took residence in my body. Not in fact a very good day, because I soon found that Mr Parkinson had made most of my daily activities very awkward, from walking to putting on a pair of socks.
The ability to walk normally was my most lamented feature, because I became a virtual prisoner in my flat. The usual medication, however, was prescribed and gradually increased, but not very much happened. After several months of punching Mr Parkinson on the nose, with little results, my luck began to turn in unexpected ways.
It is a curious story. It started with a visit of a cousin from Uruguay, whom I had not seen for some seventy years. This cousin had a husband and this husband had a sister who was the head of a Parkinson clinic in California, and he insisted that I telephone her. After a bit of the usual professional discourse, she assured me that my walking difficulties should not have been so serious (I could hardly walk more than a hundred yards).
As a result, I began to be somewhat restless and decided to take some action to clear up the relation between Mr Parkinson and my joints, which appeared to be locked as if a suit of armour had been placed to restrain them: the moment I started walking my hips became rigid. And my shoulders were so painful that raising my arms over my head was almost impossible.
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