My Parkinson’s diagnosis has shown me how kind society really is

Like Ozzy Osbourne, I was last year diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, the degenerative condition that impairs the functioning of the body. In a series of recent interviews, Osbourne has spoken frankly about the impact of the neurological disorder. ‘That thing has knocked the shit out of me,’ he said, Brummie-style. I’m with Ozzy. It’s done the same to me.

My difficulties began about 18 months ago, when my left leg developed an involuntary twitch, which soon extended to my other limbs. My gait became increasingly awkward, alternating between a strange quickstep and a longer, more laboured shuffle, complete with stoop and limp. The effect was like a cross between John Inman in Are You Being Served? and Ygor, the misshapen assistant played by Bela Lugosi in 1942 horror movie The Ghost of Frankenstein. To my dismay, my handwriting also deteriorated to a tiny, illegible scrawl. This physical decline was accompanied by waves of chronic, irrational dread. As I grew ever more immobile, I was seized by fears that I was sliding into financial trouble, or that my home would be burnt down, or that Jeremy Corbyn would become prime minister.

Humans excel at self-deception. For ages I tried to tell myself that my deterioration was just due to a severe but temporary recurrence of my sciatica, a long-standing back problem for which I had undergone surgery in the 1980s. But the mix of tremor, terror and torpor worsened, so in September I arranged to see a highly-regarded back specialist. My delusion evaporated the moment I limped into his consulting room. ‘I’m afraid there is no point in my examining your back. You don’t have sciatica. I am pretty certain you have Parkinson’s,’ he said in a kindly but authoritative manner, adding that he would refer me to a neurologist.