I am sitting on a bench in South Beach. My wife is trying to take a picture of me. "Smile," she says. What are you talking about, I am smiling. "Come on Doug, smile or at least light up a little." Huh? What does she mean? She takes the picture and hands the camera to me. My god! The camera has sucked all the life out of me. I look like the corpse of Otzi, the mummified iceman. My face is long, grey and expressionless. I hand the camera back. "Try again," I say. This time we are successful. I am smiling. Still not the reincarnation of Steve McQueen, but acceptable.
"That is the second time this month I have seen that face," my wife adds, "Totally unengaged." I silently vow, I won't let it happen again.
Then I am diagnosed and I read about Muhammed Ali. I remember seeing him on stage at an awards show. He was there with George Foreman, representing the movie, "When We Were Kings". Foreman was animated, Ali was expressionless. I knew he had PD, but at least he could have smiled. I was later to learn about the parkinsonian mask-like facial expression, which is to say, no expression. Ali, diagnosed in 1979, was a victim of the mask.
And now, I too had been visited by parkinson's trying to put its brand on me. Not going to happen. Since then, I do facial exercises and I have not had a recurrence.
In the words of Groucho, "I never forget a face but in your case, I will make an exception."
From now on, as someone once remarked, I will keep my face to the sunshine and let the shadows fall behind me.
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