Shaky Man Walking

By FRED RANSDELL

Before his diagnosis with Parkinson's disease in 1998, Fred Ransdell had dismissed thoughts of contributing to the field of paleontology, labeling them as "unrealistic" and "out of reach." Today Ransdell has spent years working on fossils at the Museum of Nature and Science in Dallas, Texas. He has been on dozens of trips out in the field to search for fossils and has even participated in official fossil excavations. Not just for fossil fans, however, Shaky Man Walking is a sincere account of one "normal guy's" stops and starts along the uncertain path before him. It's a heartening read for anyone who fears that bad news, including diagnosis with a debilitating disease, means the end of your story. Ransdell is living proof that it can be quite the opposite.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257213245

Book preview

Walking

PROLOGUE: BEGIN AGAIN

Camped along the Rio Grande, I stood outside my tent, cursing the droning mosquitoes that flew a holding pattern around my ears. It wasn’t the ending I’d have chosen to this milestone day. The temperature had cooled to 97 degrees, a joke around camp as we vainly conjured a crisp, spring evening that would not materialize. In the darkness, I traveled back to the beginning – not of this day, but of a day years back – that set me on my journey here, today, a member of a select party of professors, students, and museum volunteers tasked with digging up a 600-pound dinosaur bone and readying it for transport back to the Museum of Nature and Science in Dallas. I had not recognized the beginning of this journey. It came disguised as an ending.

1 NOT SO VERY GLAD TO MEET YOU

I imagine that Parkinson’s is like so many other diseases. Those early signs and small annoyances sneak up on us so slowly and subtly that when, at last, they command our full attention, we’re left feeling, well, foolish, for not paying closer attention. How could I not see this coming? For me, the past blurred, fog surrounding that first meeting and any early warning signs that may have been posted along the way. Thinking back, though, there is a time when Parky, my unwelcome but now ever-present companion, may have put in an early appearancef – a shadowy version, only hinting at times to come.

A Warning

On July 14, 1996, just before the church service began, my daughter, Randi, asked me to record the baptism ceremony for my twin grandchildren, Bronwyn and Logan. I wore my trusty black suit that day, but its tourniquet-like grip on my arms proved a painful reminder that I no longer weighed anything near my much-earlier purchase weight. My unintentional straightjacket, combined with (forgive the contradiction) the ungodly heat inside the church, made it nearly impossible to concentrate. Between my unsuccessful attempts to steady my shaking arm and wiping perspiration off my forehead, I finally gave up trying to produce any quality results on film. I left the church feeling the sting of failure, disappointed in a shaky visual record of my grandchildren’s baptism. At the time, I blamed it on the suit and the heat, but now?

Maybe Parky was paying me a courtesy call that day. See what you’ve got to look forward to? he whispered, but I ignored him … until just over one short year later.

The Jumping Thumb Thing

As the summer of 1997 was coming to a close, my office had moved from an easy 10-minute commute to a 36-mile drive from the north side of Dallas to Cedar Hill on the far south side of the county. On a beautiful September morning, I listened to talk radio, enjoying the cool breeze blowing in the truck window and thinking through the workday ahead. As always, I drove with both hands atop the steering wheel, thumbs splayed to where their tips were barely touching. Without warning, my right thumb jumped and twitched. I ignored it, but when it jumped again a few moments later, I thought, What’s the deal? It happened one more time and then … nothing. Everything was back to normal. It wasn’t until the following week that the same cause and effect got my attention again. Initially, I was just curious. There was no pain or soreness, just a total lack of control of my right thumb for one brief moment and then everything was fine.

Weeks, and then months, went by with days of normalcy punctuated with a day here and there of the thumb thing. Time passed with increased frequency of the jumping thumb on my drive to work. In February of 1998, I injured my right elbow while exercising, so I went to see

Dr. Smith.

The Bad News

After diagnosing me with what was soon to be the relatively insignificant inconvenience of tennis elbow, Dr. Smith was ready to close our visit. That’s when I told him, almost as an afterthought, My thumb’s been doing this strange thing. I was expecting some quick dismissal, but instead he sobered instantly. He had me hold my arms out straight, and stared at my hands. Finally, he looked back up at me, brow furrowed, and said, There’s definitely a tremor to your right hand. My heart raced, and I felt a rush of panic. I knew what was coming. My dad and Helen, my sister, had early symptoms of Parkinson’s disease (PD) before dying of other causes. After more twisting and various movements with my hands and arms, he looked me in the eye and firmly told me that the mild tremors had nothing to do with my injured elbow. He put on his best face and said that, for now, he would diagnose the twitching thumb as a benign tremor, but he might eventually have to diagnose it as Parkinson’s disease.

Dr. Smith, Al, was my family physician for nearly 30 years. We belonged to the same small church for years, and we still play in the same card club every month. He is an exceptional physician and a trusted friend. I spent 12 years in the pharmaceutical industry working with many physicians, and I can honestly say that I’ve never met a physician with a better bedside manner or with more patience than Al. He’s a great doctor, so on that fateful day, I weakly hoped that he was mistaken. That’s why they call it practicing medicine, right? But it wasn’t practice. It was game day. And I didn’t like my odds.

Even More Bad News

While I appreciated Al’s diagnostic parole, I couldn’t help thinking about the tremor and the real possibility of my having PD. Not really knowing anything about the disease, I was fearful that it would progress rapidly and leave me unable to care for myself.

That night I did a reluctant reconnoiter on Parkinson’s disease and inflicted equal turns of self-pity and rage on myself, visiting endless websites that read like a bad dream: A constant blank look on the face, shaky hands, decreased arm swing, short steps when walking, and a stooped posture; debilitating fatigue, excess salivating, and tremors, mostly when the limb is at rest; rigid muscles that are painful and weak; reduced muscle movement and balance that prevents the patient from carrying out a normal grooming routine; difficulty speaking, eating, and swallowing; too dry or oily skin; trouble sleeping or even turning over in bed. Add anxiety, depression, and dementia (and o much more) to the mix, and I ended up feeling like the lead in my very own Greek Tragedy.

After I couldn’t ingest anymore, I briefly ran through some of the phases of the Grief Process. Denial lasted about 10 minutes, tops. (Parky kept interrupting with a tremor.) Anger, and then guilt, lasted a little longer. I commanded myself to take it all in.

I wondered, If I look back on my life, where will I find the beginnings of this disease? I wanted to know if it was something I’d done … or hadn’t done. Did it have to do with where I’d lived? What I’d eaten? Or was it, simply, inescapable genetics? Whatever the cause, I was now face to face with this life-altering intruder – this would-be crusher of dreams and denier of all normalcy. Regardless of how it began, I realized then that any formerly perceived troubles with coworkers, in-laws, and lawn pests would be mere child’s play compared with my dealings with this new companion. Hello, Parky. Not so very glad to meet you.

2 WHY?

Remembering Dad and Helen’s early symptoms, it has been easy to place at least some of the blame on genetics, but then there’s also a lifetime of exposure to caustic agents. How much environmental blame can I level at this mess? That’s where my cheery laundry list of whys began. (I’ve included some of them here, pretty much in chronological order, but usually these little gems just pop up randomly, casting a shadow over what were once just ordinary memories.)

I Was a Victim of Mom’s Misguided Cold Cures

From my earliest years, I remember the cures that Mom, however well meaning, would administer to us. Whenever any of us got a cold or sore throat, she would have us swallow a teaspoon of Vick’s Vapor Rub. Yuck! And for everything else, from stomachaches to hangnails, we got that ultimate gastro-acidic destructor, castor oil. After a dose of one of those home remedies, we knew better than to complain about much of anything. Silent suffering was the preferred option. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that those old-fashioned remedies did more harm than good, but then maybe that’s just my gag reflex talking.

I Was a Naïve Glue-Sniffer

As a kid, I loved working on plastic model train, plane, and ship sets, but all that model glue? Turned out my favorite childhood hobby was eventually revealed to have toxic consequences. And I certainly never, as the kits now caution you, worked in a well-ventilated area while wearing a mask. I think I definitely damaged some brain cells there.

I Ate LOTS of Food that Was To Die For

Continuing down the darker path of my childhood memories, associating the hamburger stand and ice cream parlor where I spent most every day of my teen years with caustic agents might seem extreme, but I certainly ate a lifetime’s worth of junk food in that short window of time. When I consider countless other conditions and diseases directly affected by diet, it wouldn’t surprise me if all those burgers, hot dogs, fries, and frosted mugs full of sugary root beer floats didn’t have some negative long-term effects. Maybe all those fast-food favorites really were to die for?

I Flirted With a Cute Redhead

Some research indicates that head trauma and concussions are possible, although as of yet not definitive, causes and/or accelerators of PD. Growing up, I certainly fell down our wooden stairs enough times to cause lasting damage. I was actually pretty creative in seeking out new ways to knock my own block off, but there’s one incident that’s kept a tenacious grip on its first-place ranking for nearly five decades.

My first 18 months out of high school found me living in Elkhart, Indiana, located in far north Indiana just below the Michigan state line. I’d chosen to attend a technical school for medical laboratory and x-ray technicians and dental assistants and technicians. I learned how to make dentures, crowns, and bridges, which was all good stuff that I was glad to learn, but my main reason for going was the large class of dental assistants. I signed on as soon as I found out there were six girls to every boy. To this day, I celebrate my genius in selecting enrollment at that school. None of the guys had trouble getting a date. Not one. Not ever.

One warm summer morning at Elkhart, a group of guys got together to play softball. I stood on third base, dividing my attention between the pitcher and the cute redhead, newly arrived, watching from the bleachers. When I won a smile, I cheered inwardly, Yes, wise Fred. Add one more future dental assistant to that already exceptionally favorable female-tomale ratio.

At that moment, the crack of bat meeting ball was quickly followed by pitch darkness. When I regained consciousness, I was cartoon Fred, a spinning halo of stars over my head. It seemed the Milky Way Galaxy was before me. This did not concern the pitcher and my so-called friends in the slightest. My brain could have been hemorrhaging. (I could have even been dying for all they knew!) But all I got was, Fred, stop screwing around! I was dragged like a fallen log, out of the way and abandoned. The game went on as if I’d never existed. My ego bruised and my head pounding, my imagined victory was short-lived. I can’t even remember what happened to that redhead. Perhaps it was brain damage that’s blocked her from my memory? (Or maybe I just couldn’t look at her again without getting a splitting headache!)

I Was an Idiot

During my four years