It was a year ago, to the day. I noticed how far down the floor had gotten. At the same time, I had lost elbow room — particularly when trying to maneuver a forkful of peas into my mouth. As for folding my underwear, it was frustrating: like trying to catch a fish in a pail.
I had been told that reality is a construction of the mind, and I believed it, but I had never had a chance to test this theory. What I was about to discover is that chemicals in the brain — in my case, absence of dopamine — are acting as interior designers, shaping space this way and that way, shortening some distances, flattening perspectives, raising steps, adding or subtracting a couple of inches here and there to the height of chairs, steps and thresholds. Trying to describe my discomfort to my primary doctor, I told him I felt that “space is closing up on me like a coffin.” He asked me if I was depressed and suggested I speak to a shrink.
Granted, my metaphor was overdramatic. Had my primary doctor been a graphic designer, I would have told him that I felt trapped in a Merzbau — in one of the mazelike installations of Dada artist Kurt Schwitters. No chance he would have understood my reference. To explain the rigid sensation in my legs and arms, I briefly considered mentioning Marcel Duchamp’s famous Nude Descending a Staircase. It would have been gibberish to him.
He sent me to consult specialists: a rheumatologist, an endocrinologist, a cardiologist, a nutritionist, a couple of physical therapists. I was X-rayed, scanned and MRIed. No one could figure out what was wrong with me.
We were in lockdown mode. To stay fit, all my girlfriends were taking yoga lessons on Zoom. Joining them was out of the question: the yoga mat on the floor was so far down, I would have had to rappel down a rope from a helicopter to get to it.
Instead, I decided to do some badly needed re-landscaping around the yard. I live in the country in the South of France. I could justify using the furlough to do a little gardening. Being outdoors appealed to me: there, I wouldn’t bump into furniture, fall from a stepladder, or trip on the edge of a rug. For the next three months, I moved enough soil to build a dam across the Yangtze River. I strutted around, pushing heavy wheelbarrows up and down ridges.
In hindsight I realize that, with my hoe, shovel and spade, I was trying to gain control over the spatial dimension that was slowly shrinking my world and, yes, turning me into a prisoner inside my own body. By the time I was done with my earth-moving project, I could hardly walk. The diagnosis: sciatica. The treatment: Advil.
Last week in Paris, it took a neurologist exactly three minutes to diagnose Parkinson’s. She was a pro — like Paula Scher, who took 34 years to learn to draw a logo in a few seconds. The question is: Why did it take so long for me to book an appointment with the right specialist? Was I mentally impaired as well as physically handicapped? What do you think?