It’s a good thing I never wanted to be a Macho Man. Parkinson’s Disease has assured me that, if I had any such desires, I would be an abysmal failure.
First, my physique, which has never been considered chiselled by any stretch, is now collapsing in on itself. While I have less dyskenisis due to successful duodopa pump therapy, this has resulted in weight gain. I’m up 25 lbs. from where I’d like to be. It has also left me with a foot long cord protruding from my gut (I understand there is actually about another metre or so of the cord internally). No Charles Atlas bathing suit competitions for this lad. Joggin’ in the mornings? I don’t think so. Workouts in the health spa watchin’ muscles grow? No, no.
So, physically, you see it is impossible for me to “strut my stuff” with such bravado and machismo. Perhaps more damning though is at an emotional level.
I have always considered myself, as an adult, to be a somewhat more sensitive type of person. Yet, as Parkinson’s has progressed, I find myself to be more than sensitive. Uber sensitive I’d say. I am so easily lead to tears – be it from an old song, a scene from a favourite film, or some television drama. I don’t know why or precisely what triggers it but, for my family, it’s somewhat predictable. I get these “Oh, yeh, here’s the part where he’s going to cry” looks directed my way and usually they are right. I begin to well up, then tear or weep for a short time, and then I’m fine. I’m not reduced to a blubbering fool (yet) but without a doubt, I do cry.
Now, look closely at the video. You might have to watch it twice but I am pretty sure you’ll find that none of these macho men are crying.
Perhaps you don’t recoil at the thought of a man breaking down in tears. Perhaps, I am just part of a positive evolution of a more modern, sensitive male. Perhaps I am exposing a hitherto disguised foundation in social work (it’s true, I have a Masters in Social Work). Regardless, there is no sense in denying it. I’m a cry baby.