The tremors started subtly, a barely perceptible twitch in my left thumb that I initially dismissed as a result of being dehydrated or a late set hangover. It was an inconvenience, nothing more, a minor blip on the radar of my otherwise perfectly normal life. But as the weeks turned into months, the tremor grew more persistent. At first, I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was just stress, a temporary glitch in my body’s symphony. It became a constant companion, an unwelcome guest who refused to leave.
Several months later, I began to notice that the tremor had spread to my entire left hand. It wasn’t just a slight twitch anymore; it was a consistent shake that I couldn’t ignore. One night, as my boyfriend and I lay in bed watching Big Brother, we were both absorbed in the drama unfolding on-screen. I felt my hand resting in his, but something was off. I could feel the tremors. I wondered, for a moment, if he could feel it too. It wasn’t intense enough to be alarming, but I knew it was noticeable to me.
Then, without saying a word, he gently squeezed my hand. The gesture was so simple, yet so deeply reassuring. It wasn’t just an acknowledgment of my trembling hand. That small squeeze, a quiet, unspoken moment between us, was his way of telling me that he was there, that he saw me. It was as if he was letting me know that I didn’t have to hide or be embarrassed. I didn’t have to explain or justify anything.
It wasn’t just the tremors, though. There were other symptoms that began to emerge. Sometimes, a strange, almost imperceptible stiffness would grip my muscles, making it difficult to move. I would often catch myself staring blankly into space, like I was concerned about something. It would feel as though my brain was taking a nap but my body was still awake.
I remember watching a video from Christmas and not even recognizing the person on the screen. I was helping my niece open a Christmas present-a red sled I had bought for her. The lack of life and energy in my movements was palpable, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was lost in my own body. My face was frozen with a half smile and empty, nervous look in my eyes. Removing the wrapping paper looked like it was almost an impossible task for me.
That night we went on to play a game of Left, Right, Center. If you are not familiar with the game…it’s a game that takes family drama to a whole new level. It starts innocently enough—just a few bucks, a couple of dice, and some harmless fun. But as the dice are rolled and the money starts moving around the table, something shifts. That “C” symbol? It’s like a personal betrayal when someone snatches a dollar from you and sends it to the center of the table.
The tension builds as your dear cousin Rick casually rolls a “L” and takes a dollar from you, only to pass it to his sister Tammy, who’s been eyeing your cash since the start of the game. And then, of course, Aunt Linda rolls three “R”s in a row and happily sends all her bills over to her own daughter. Everyone is keeping track of who gave what, who’s hoarding their money, and who’s being too generous with their “R”s.
Before you know it, the game has become a high-stakes financial tug-of-war. The friendly banter turns into low-key insults about who’s “cheap” or who’s “too proud” to hand over their last dollar. Family loyalties unravel faster than a fraying sweater. You’re not just fighting for the money; you’re fighting for your pride, your dignity, and your place in the family hierarchy.
By the time the game ends, someone’s accusing someone else of cheating, someone’s definitely hiding a dollar under the table, and someone else is just mad that they lost. The game might be over, but the lingering grudge could last until the next holiday.
The center pile gets messy, a collection of scattered bills for the winner to collect in all their glory. Easy enough to gather together for everyone else but for me I knew it would be difficult that day. I found myself hoping not to win. Not because I didn’t need the money but because I knew I would be exposing myself to everyone because of my lack of ability to move fluidly enough to collect the cash.
It’s strange how something so small—a pile of crumpled bills—can hold so much weight. Moments like these remind me of how often I second-guess myself, how my mind calculates every move before I even attempt it.
It happens in places no one else would think twice about: reaching for a drink at a crowded table, fumbling with a zipper, or signing my name on a receipt. Each of these small, seemingly insignificant actions can cause so much anxiety it’s really actually ridiculous.
As the symptoms intensified, my anxiety began to escalate. When I returned back to my apartment after that Christmas, I started researching, poring over medical websites and forums, searching for explanations. I came across articles on essential tremors, Parkinson’s disease, and other neurological conditions, and a part of me was starting to just feel it in me, that maybe it was Parkinson’s. I feel like you just know your body and if it wasn’t for being 28 years old at the time, I think it would have taken me a lot less convincing, but my instincts were right. I would be diagnosed with Young Onset Parkinson’s Disease a few weeks later.