I sat in an uncomfortable flower-print chair in my neurologist’s office. The nurses in the front office were talking to each other about what type of sandwich they would order for lunch. The background was filled with traces of annoying soft-rock music and an overpowering smell of coffee. It was apparent that someone put much effort into creating a calm and relaxing environment, but at the moment it felt as irritating as wearing an itchy sweater in the desert.
Hearing the diagnosis — “You have Parkinson’s disease. There is no cure, and you will struggle with this the rest of your life.” — was like being punched in the stomach. I felt cheated out of a life that held so much promise. Read the rest of the article here.