Kingdom of Parkinson’s. 2. Shrink.

Good job I still have my phone. With charger. And wifi. Quite happy about that. It means I can still reach my family. Text a few friends. Chill. Still, what am I supposed to do here. I don’t belong here. This is definitely not me at all. Right, going to call home and tell them that I am not entirely sure of my whereabouts, but hey, no to worry, I’ll probably be home soon. My husband and children are worried, more so when I tell them about this wall, a gate that changed shape and that I actually haven’t got a clue where I am.

‘You’re in the hospital?’ they ask me, sort of hoping they misunderstood this thing about a wall and a gate. ‘Is it the MRI that made you so confused, or the Dat-what-I-don’t-want-to-Know Scan? That’s alright, mum, these scans are upsetting.’ My heart breaks a little. Surely, they know where I am…?

I text a friend.
Friend replies.
‘Would you like me to give you the phone number of a very, very good psychologist?’

Psychologist

What do you mean….psychologist? As if it is MY fault that this weird gate no longer fits! I didn’t start this! Do you really think this was MY plan? Well, believe you me, it wasn’t. And by the way, I bet this shrink has a gate she can pass through anytime she likes. Great, really great. And you expect me to explain to her what it’s like when your gate won’t let you through anymore? As if she’d understand. I don’t think so.

Accept

Alright then. I’ll talk to her. Happy now?
I must admit that she’s genuinely trying to help me.
‘You’ll feel better, if you accept your situation.’
Red flag.
‘Accept’.
Look, love, I say to the psychologist, do I strike you as the ‘accepting’ kind of person?

Whining Leave

The other day my husband invented a word: Whining Leave. Every now and then you’re entitled to Whining Leave. When something truly awful happens to you, it’s perfectly okay to have a little break to whine, wail and weep. In severe cases a psychologist is the best wail-whine-weeping station. Like when you’ve just been to a neurologist for that teeny weeny little problem. And you walked out of the hospital with some hopeless diagnosis in your pocket.

Read the next chapter: Grandmother

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