For the record, all but this paragraph and the “P.S.” at the end were rewritten using ChatGPT. I have since edited the portions that changed the entire tone of the message. But I’m curious… does it still sound like I wrote it?
The other night, Annie and I had the absolute joy of seeing Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass at the Byham Theater. Let me just say — this 90-year-old legend is still zig-zagging his way across the country, putting on spectacular shows and celebrating the album with one of the most iconic covers of all time: Whipped Cream & Other Delights. It was nostalgic, energetic, and honestly, a joy to be there.
But as always, Parkinson’s did what Parkinson’s does.
If you’ve ever been in a packed theater, you know those mid-level seats don’t exactly offer room to stretch. The A/C can only do so much when you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder with 1,299 other people. And if you try to prop your legs up for relief, the person in front of you will let you know about it.
I could feel the dystonia creeping in before the show even started — that painful muscle tightening that tends to hit at the worst times. So I asked Annie to switch sides with me so I could be “annoying” to her instead of the polite stranger to my left. At one point during the show, she placed a disposable ice pack that we’d brought along (pro tip: bring one) on my neck. It’s amazing how something cold can calm a muscle that’s acting like it’s auditioning for a jazz solo.
My left leg was in constant motion, and I did my best to keep it in time with the music. If I was going to twitch uncontrollably, it might as well look like rhythm, right?
Now here’s where it gets a little emotionally messy.
As the band launched into its seventh encore — midway through their second finale — the couple a few seats down got up to leave. Almost immediately, the man sitting directly next to me moved to the other side of his wife.
And I haven’t been able to stop wondering if it was because of me.
Did I ruin his night? I tried my absolute best to keep my symptoms contained. I was loving the performance. I wanted to be present, respectful. But I know what dystonia can look like — and I know it can be unsettling to someone who doesn’t understand.
Part of me wanted to bring the guy some cookies afterward. Maybe with a note that read: “I have Parkinson’s. Here’s some sugar to help you deal with my situation.” But with my luck, he’d either be diabetic… or think they were laced with something suspicious.
I didn’t say anything to the man and he said nothing to me. I just stood up when it was over — and, thankfully, I looked like someone going through something. Maybe that was enough of a clue. Maybe not. I’ll never know.
When I told Annie about it a few days later, she gently calmed me down. She said, “You know… maybe he moved to give you more space.
Then, a few moments later she said, “And hey, remember when we flew home from Colorado last year on Southwest? A man wanted to sit next to you, but you let him know it might not be a comfortable spot for him. I wonder… could we call Southwest and see if they’d give you an extra seat, like they do for ‘people of size’? Just to make sure you’re comfortable when we go to Myrtle Beach next month?”
So she called.
And she got the nicest woman in the world on the phone — someone who understood, who listened, and who did everything in her power to make it happen.
So now? I get a little more breathing room on our upcoming flight. The trip to the beach already feels lighter.
And hey, I may still pack a cookie — just in case.
PS – The disposable ice pack was disposed by someone else. The relief it provided was “just enough”, but then it became this gelatinous mass that eventually slithered off either my leg, or Annie’s hand onto the floor and down a level under the seat in the row in front of us. I wonder if that was a first for the Byham ushers?
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