I have carried out a thorough neurological examination. And what I can say is that you are presenting what we call “cardinal” symptoms. Typical symptoms associated with a disease that is fairly uncommon in people of your age, but increasingly on the rise. There is a scan we might be able to run – it’s not a diagnosis in itself but it could confirm that we have a movement disorder which could give us a clearer picture of what we are dealing with.’
Molly’s stomach lurched. She wondered if it would be grossly inappropriate to throw up in Mr Ward’s wastepaper bin.
‘You are exhibiting what is known as “resting tremors” – tremors which occur when your limb isn’t moving. And rigidness when it is. Typically, these symptoms – which appear gradually and increase in severity over time – begin on one side of the body and migrate to the other side later on.’
Molly suddenly wished she hadn’t been silly about this. She wished she’d spoken to Ed. She hadn’t even been honest with Sam about it, in case his reaction had been scathing. No, that wasn’t fair. It was just Sam’s way to be dismissive about illness until a firm diagnosis had been given; he had been like it with his father when he had been diagnosed with dementia some years back. Hadn’t accepted the signs and symptoms until a formal diagnosis had been received.
But Molly knew she would have spoken to Ed truthfully, for some reason. Perhaps because he wasn’t married to her, because he was only a friend, he was able to be more objective than Sam.
‘Mrs Bohle, my diagnosis, like that of your GP, is that you have early-onset Parkinson’s disease.’ Mr Ward gave her a sympathetic glance. ‘Now I know that can sound like a very scary thing, but it is not – I repeat – not a death sentence. There are various drugs we can start you on. There are also clinical drug trials you might be interested in. Once you’ve had a second opinion, of course.’
Early-onset Parkinson’s. Early-onset Parkinson’s. She had it, she actually had it. Oh my God. Molly’s head was reeling. She had furtively perused the internet over the weekend and she had found that early-onset Parkinson’s fitted as a possible diagnosis. She wanted to be in denial about possibly having it but nothing else fit. There had been many less-frightening conditions she could have latched on to, but Molly hadn’t fully believed that they matched her symptoms.
‘I have some literature here for you,’ Mr Ward was saying. ‘About drug trials, about support, about different symptoms and long-term prognosis. Different for everyone, of course, but it can be helpful to know what is ahead.’
‘Oh God.’ Molly leant over and started crying. ‘This can’t be happening. I’m – I’m in my thirties, for fuck’s sakes. Sorry. Sorry for swearing.’
‘No need. And I understand that this is very hard for you to hear. People as young as twenty-one have been diagnosed with this and it can be incredibly distressing, whatever age you are.’
‘But I’ve read such awful things about this – about bladder and bowel problems, slow speech, the freezing thing where you seize up and can’t move. Not being able to do bloody buttons up.’ Molly was openly sobbing now. ‘Are all of those things going to happen to me?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Mr Ward said soothingly. ‘It affects everyone differently. Many people of your age tend to focus their energy on managing the non-motor symptoms of this disease because quality of life is the most important thing.’
Quality of life. What was her ‘quality of life’ going to be like now? Molly felt shock wrapping itself coldly around her body. Would she be able to drive? Dress herself? Remember her own name? Was this illness going to render her incapable of conducting a normal conversation? Was she going to turn into a manic depressive? She had read that people suffering from this disease often experienced depression – either prior to some of the motor symptoms, or later on once the diagnosis had been received.
‘Get a second opinion, Mrs Bohle,’ Mr Ward reiterated firmly. ‘I could be wrong about this. It’s one of the diseases I dislike diagnosing because of the lack of definitive testing. So as strongly inclined as I am to lean in this direction, I would genuinely like you to run this past another professional.’
Molly stood up, nodded numbly and thanked Mr Ward. Clutching the literature he had given her, she left his office and walked out of the hospital. Once outside, she gave in to the nausea and threw up down a once-pristine side wall.
September 1995
‘Who’s that girl, Middleford?’ Ed Sutherland nudged his best friend.
‘Keep your hair on. You nearly made me upend my glass of Tatt,’ Middleford, otherwise known as Boyd, huffed.
Ed eyed him fondly. Boyd was such a nobber. ‘It’s Taittinger, as you well know. And you don’t have to drink it. I’ve managed to get through the entire evening without touching a drop.’ He held up his glass of beer with some pride.
‘That’s because it’s not your mother hosting this event, is it?’ Boyd went cross-eyed for no apparent reason. ‘She likes me to drink champagne. Says it shows breeding.’
Ed gave Boyd an indulgent punch on the arm. ‘Your family own this massive house on the coast,’ Ed gestured outside, ‘and you have a coat of arms, for feck’s sakes. No one could possibly doubt that you’re a toff.’
‘Oh, piss off. You’re lucky you’re even here, you know. My mother thinks you’re a bad influence. And she says there’s something dodgy about you.’
Ed fingered the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. Boyd had no idea how astute his mother was. In the first instance, Ed had learnt that mothers fell into one of two camps as far as he was concerned. Camp one (of which Boyd’s mother was the archetypal, fully paid-up member) took the view that he was dangerous, a bad boy. Someone liable to lead their son – or more likely, daughter – astray.
Camp two saw him as a plaything and as such, flirted with him. Outrageously. On occasion members of camp two had been known to proposition him, despite his tender age of seventeen (just). Ed had succumbed once to such a proposition, mainly because the mother had been astonishingly beautiful and because Ed was sure she would teach him a thing or two. He hadn’t been wrong about that, but he hadn’t expected the stalker-ish behaviour that had followed the liaison. He had been forced to sever all ties with the friend simply to avoid the mother. Lessons learnt.
Ed edged a cigarette out of the packet and put it in his mouth. He couldn’t exactly blame camp one for being wary of him. He was a bad boy, in the mildest of forms. And frankly it was an image he cultivated. Like many of the macho heroes he admired, Ed loved drinking, smoking and women. Especially women. Or in his case, they tended to come under the banner of ‘girls’. He loved the way they looked, the way they smelt, the swell of their chests, their long, smooth legs. Their full mouths, their beautiful eyes looking at him with appreciation, or sometimes trepidation. Ed easily dealt with either response; the former fed his ego, the latter presented a challenge.
But Mrs Middleford had also worked out that there was something ‘dodgy’ about him – a very upper-class way of stating that he didn’t fit in somehow, that her social antennae had detected a mismatch. Ed made a mental note to keep an eye on that. He could do without his secrets being revealed just as he was about to leave the school
