I call it the The Last Supper
The doctor looked me straight in the eye.
”Your cerebellum is damaged. You’ve got maybe seven days to live.”
No emotion. No hesitation. Just that.
I nodded. Walked out. And went to eat.
No, seriously. I took my family out for what I thought might be our last dinner together. We laughed. We ordered dessert. We took photos. I didn’t tell them the truth. What was the point?
If I was going to die, I didn’t want to spend my final hours in a hospital bed. I wanted to taste life, not mourn it.
Then came the beep.
My phone lit up: hospital number. Urgent.
“Come back. Now.”
New scans. New eyes. New confusion.
”Actually… there’s no cerebellum damage. We don’t know what’s going on.”
I wasn’t dying. Not yet. But something was wrong.
And so began my story with Parkinson’s.
Not with a tremor. Not with stiffness. With death. Or at least the illusion of it.