I wrote last about how vigorous hand exercises restored a measure of fine motor skill in my fingers. I could again handwrite.
The implacable Parkinson’s Beast within did not like my small victory.
It bit back. Hard.
I took a three-day trip to Philadelphia in late September. I traveled alone due to my wife’s grounding for chemotherapy.
Arriving in Philly, I realized the small pouch containing my car and house keys was gone. I had unknowingly dropped it going through TSA security in the Atlanta airport.
Returning to Atlanta, I used my credit card to pay for the taxi ride. I was paged at the airport. The virtuous taxi driver had found the card on the floor of his back seat. He was frantically trying to return it.
Only then did I fully realize what had happened. I had lost all feeling in both hands. That remains the case.
The key pouch was found in the Atlanta airport and returned to my Macon home by FedEx.
My touch has not been returned. That bastard Parkinson’s has it.