PARKINSON’S BADASS, LLC

My pen, my home, my mind, and my story are all a bit like a buffet—lots of options, some you love, some you avoid, and a few that leave you wondering, “Who put raisins in the potato salad?” There are many chapters, each with its own flavor: tedium, pain, hope, and the occasional achievement badge (no trophy, but maybe a sticker).

Six months later, I went to a neurologist. Like most doctors these days, he was deeply in love—with his computer screen. He glanced at me occasionally, probably to make sure I hadn’t turned into a spreadsheet. But then, he suddenly took off his glasses, got serious, and said, “Chris, I’m very sorry to tell you, you have Parkinson’s.” His whole demeanor changed. He was finally looking at me instead of his keyboard—progress!

I asked what I should do. He said, “EXERCISE! EXERCISE! EXERCISE!” Easy for him to say. Luckily, I’d been exercising ever since Vietnam—distance running, hiking the Colorado Rockies (not the baseball team, though I probably have a better batting average). I even added yoga, because if my brain and body are going to be in this together, they might as well get flexible. Years later, I looked back and said, “Darn right!” Yoga is a game-changer. If you get diagnosed with Parkinson’s, start yoga immediately—trust me, your brain will thank you, even if your hamstrings don’t.

We tried a couple of medicines, but they were about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Tremor decided to expand its territory to both sides of my body—hello, Stage 2! But honestly, it didn’t bother me much. I asked the doc, “Why am I doing so well?” He was stumped too, so he ordered a DAT Scan. The results were clear: I definitely had PD. At least my diagnosis was official—no more impostor syndrome.

I joined a local Parkinson’s support group. My first visit looked like an audition for the world’s saddest movie: one very depressed man talking to a dozen equally gloomy folks. The co-leader was absent—his wife was in the hospital, battling PD. Not exactly the pep rally I’d hoped for.

Since I’d lectured on “health and humor” (and even wrote a book about it), I offered to do a humor program for the group. The group said yes, and guess what? Even the grumpiest faces cracked up. Laughter: 1, Parkinson’s: 0.

A few months later, I became director of the group. Like Frank Sinatra, I did it my way. Meetings became fun and informative. I made everyone stand, breathe, and smile, then howl like wolves. Our laughter was so loud, people from other rooms in the senior center came running to see if we’d started a zoo. I always brought fresh jokes—because laughter is the best medicine, and also cheaper than the real stuff.

After eight years, I stepped down so new minds could take over. By 2020, our meetings averaged 110 people—a far cry from that first, somber gathering.

Then COVID hit, and things got tougher, especially with the non-motor symptoms. But hey, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that a little humor goes a long way—even when your sense of smell is gone and your wine tastes like grape-flavored water.