I had a profound thought the other day about why things happen, and if we really can choose how our future life pans out. Before my Parkinson’s diagnosis I wasn’t living my best life in any way, shape or form. In the depths of a depression that I didn’t realise I was going through, I was drinking too much, eating crap food, doing nothing particularly productive and being miserable. I was basically killing myself slowly.

Feeling alive in 2025…

On April 6th, 2024, I collapsed at home and was unable to move. I don’t know how long it took but I somehow managed to find my phone and call an ambulance. All I remember is the paramedic saying, “you should pack a bag, you’re coming with us”. They had to do it for me., My body said (like the great boxer Roberto Duran) “No Mas” and simply gave up. I was admitted to hospital for what turned out to be 23 nights with what the doctor said was a “severe case of hyponatremia (low sodium), nervous exhaustion, vitamin deficiencies and gout”. Two days later I was informed “by the way, you have Parkinson’s disease too”.

At that moment I thought my number was up. What I couldn’t possibly imagine is that my recovery and rebirth was just beginning.

I don’t remember a whole lot about the first few days in the hospital, probably because I don’t want to. I remember a few of the lads on the second ward, especially the one in the bed opposite mine, who spent all day shouting, throwing his meals on the floor and occasionally shitting and pissing in his pants. I spent the last few days in the neurology ward, where I was surrounded by dementia patients and lunatics. One bloke woke me at 4am with a torch in my face saying: “shh… the nurses are trying to kill me and you’re next.” I knew I had to get out of there before I morphed into Randle P. McMurphy. Thankfully there were no Indian chiefs or heavy sinks on the ward, but it was three days I never want to relive. Incidentally I still see people who tell me I look far better today than when they visited me. I’m then thinking “did you visit?” If I haven’t thanked anyone it’s because I honestly can’t remember. I did and still do appreciate your kindness.

I came home on April 29th after bluffing my way through the physical tests set by the discharge nurse. My wonderful friend Karen picked me up and got me home with my Zimmer frame and bag. The flat had been cleaned and the fridge stocked by friends. Laundry done. Bedsheets changed and someone even had the foresight to buy some toilet roll! The first thing I actually did was shave three and-a-half weeks of beard and hair growth off and hobble to the shower, where I sat on the seat, that my mum begged for but never used once, for half an hour, enjoying the hot water beating down on my weak and fragile body, washing away 23 days of having nothing but a bed bath to maintain an element of personal hygiene. I then slept for 14 hours solid.

That first few nights home alone were very scary. I mostly sat in my armchair and cried for hours. This was a regular thing for weeks. Then began the self-loathing for not being a good son, a good carer, for not dealing with things until the shit hit the fan. I was totally dependent on the goodwill of others, but I dug deep and, as that social worker said I should, I got my shit together and started looking to the future, whatever it threw my way. I thought about the old Brad. This was someone else cuckooing in my body. The old me would never have been able to go 8 years without even going on a date with a woman. Or 6 years without going to a gig, to the races or for a curry. It was time to start again. Sink or swim. 

Things quickly started to improve mentally, but I was physically still very weak. 23 days in bed causes muscle wastage and, add the PD into the mix for flavour, and I knew I had a long road ahead to navigate.

I am lucky to have a great support network. An utterly amazing and wonderful collection of characters from all walks of life, some of whom are lifelong friends, and some relatively new, but I love them all and will be forever grateful to them for helping me through this ordeal. 

Life gradually got better over the summer. I went for my first trip to the pub, thanks to my mate Mark helping me shuffle to the Waggon. I found a tenner on the pavement outside the chippy. An omen of future good fortune perhaps? I was a bit overwhelmed for the first few weeks of meeting people again. I felt a bit like a reluctant celebrity, as seemingly everyone I encountered wanted to chat and just ‘be nice’ to me. It was very humbling and moving. My self-confidence started coming back. My sparkle was returning. It felt good.

Fast forward to September 14th, 2024. After a pretty good, but unremarkable summer, marred only by Leeds United’s abject failure to get promotion, I was sitting in my usual spot in the Phoenix pondering my imminent birthday and the forthcoming winter that was looming when something out of the blue happened…

An old flame/friend from 30 years ago came and sat down opposite me – blissfully unaware of anything I’d been through – and we started chatting. She’d had a few beers and was tipsy, though she obviously noticed my misbehaving right hand tremor, opening the conversation with typical Vic bluntness:

“Is it Parkinson’s or are you having the DT’s?”

In my own, equally blunt manner I replied: “Parkinson’s”. No more was said about it that night.

We chatted for a bit until she went back to her girlfriends in the front bar. I didn’t think much more about the meeting until I got home, when I felt this pressing need to message her on Facebook. I simply typed “Thank you”. She replied quickly, and we continued to chat over the next few days and weeks. She brought me a bit of shopping and came round for cups of tea. The tea became a beer on a Friday night, then the odd Wednesday too, just for a couple of hours. We’d talk and laugh – I’d cry a lot too – but I started to feel human and began looking forward to her visits. I began doing things like making sure there were no baked beans stains on my t-shirt or that the toilet had been brushed. I sprayed a bit of deodorant and tidied my room.

Then one night we were talking when she just stood up, came over and sat on my knee and kissed me. I was dumbstruck and I remember my heart began racing. It wasn’t passion, it was shock and fear. I said to myself “She kissed me! Why would she do that?” Her response was a phrase I have come to know very well: “Shush now…” she whispered.

Over the next few weeks, we got closer, until in late October she went to see friends in Spain for a week. No problem there, but after two days I realised “I’m bloody missing her”. I couldn’t wait for her to come home. All I wanted was to see her. I realised that I was emotionally ‘involved’ in whatever this was. I couldn’t tell her though. She might have run away (self-esteem Bradley!) She came to see me the day after returning to the UK and I thought: “hmm, maybe she’s still interested…” It turns out she was.

Fast forward again to today. Vic and I are now very much a couple. I’ve met her son, her mum and friends, none of whom seemed to dislike me. We’ve been away for a weekend and are going to Rhodes in May. My new flat is beautiful because of her help and care as project manager. She does so much for me despite having her own busy life. I am truly blessed. She is my absolute rock, and I love her truly. My body may never get better, but my heart is well and truly mended. 

Maybe a higher power gave me this illness to slow me down and save me from the kamikaze path I was on. I don’t know and I don’t really care. I have bad days physically and things going on that people can’t see or need to know about, but I’m emotionally healed and very happy. My mum is now in permanent care somewhere where she can be looked after by people who can do so properly. I’m living my best life with my best friend and confidante always watching my back. 

Triumph over adversity? I’m not sure, but I’m not a loser anymore and I’ll face up to whatever lies ahead with hope and acceptance.