Parkinson’s is a real piece of work. It messes with your body in all the usual ways—tremors, rigidity, slowness, fatigue—but it also has a sneakier, more insidious talent: it steals your nouns.

And I don’t mean obscure, once-a-decade trivia-night nouns. I mean everyday, embarrassingly basic words like pit. Yes, pit.

I recently tried to talk with my husband about apricot kernels coming from inside the—you know—the… the… uh… the hard middle part of the fruit? Like a stone? Like a seed fortress? I waved my arms. I gestured at an imaginary apricot. I mimed breaking it open like a caveman.

But the word “pit” would not come. It stayed just out of reach, laughing silently in the corner of my mind while I turned purple with frustration.

This went on for what felt like three minutes. My husband tried to help by guessing everything but “pit.”

Seed?
Core?
Nut?
Nugget?
Fossil?

No! It’s the f***ing pit! I let out a deep grunt and rolled my eyes so hard I could practically see through the back of my head.

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The Godfather of Soul… What’s-His-Name

Then there was the time I couldn’t remember James Brown’s name. James Brown. THE James Brown. The Godfather of Soul!

I was watching a movie where he made a cameo in the background—a grainy old clip playing on a bar TV. I knew who he was. I knew his music. I knew he did the splits in rhinestones. I just could not find his name.

I sat through the whole movie—the whole thing—with my brain grinding gears like an overheated tractor.

Ninety minutes later:
“James!” I shouted, startling my dog.

Thirty more minutes after that:
“Brown!”

The victory was hollow. Like winning a game of Scrabble after everyone else has gone home.

Parkinson’s doesn’t steal your memories. It hides them in a junk drawer and dares you to find them while blindfolded.

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That Guy from That Movie with That Woman

I’ve had entire conversations where I refer to “that guy” who was in “that movie” with “the woman who dated that other guy” while my husband stands there trying to play charades with the fragments of my brain.

Spoiler alert: it’s always someone extremely famous. Someone I would’ve known instantly ten years ago. Like James-freaking-Brown.

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Behold: The Mighty Liquid Pulverizer

The other day, I forgot the word blender. BLENDER. The loud, spinny thing I use every day to make a protein shake that tastes vaguely like chalky chocolate sadness. 

I stood there asking out loud, “Where is that thing?” I muttered, “The whirring thing. The—uh—liquid pulverizer.”

My daughter raised an eyebrow.
“You mean the blender?”

I nearly hugged her.
“YES! Blender! Oh my God, you’re a genius!”
She backed away slowly like she was avoiding a street mime.

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Password: No Clue

This is what my life has become. I walk around my own head like it’s a house I used to live in, but now I can’t find the bathroom. Or the fridge. Or the labels on anything.

And here’s the kicker: I used to be good with words. Really good. Now, half the time, I feel like I’m playing a very slow, very frustrating game of Password with myself. Only I never get to say, “You got it!”

So yeah. I laugh. Because if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. Or throw an apricot pit at the wall—if I can remember what it’s called.

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And Here’s the Thing…

I’m still me. Even when the nouns go missing. Even when I call James Brown “that guy with the splits” or spend ten minutes trying to recall pit, or blender.

Parkinson’s may be messing with the wiring, but the light is still on. It flickers. It dims. But it’s still mine.

Some days, I have to dig deep for the words. Other days, I just make up new ones and hope people can translate.

Either way, I keep showing up. I keep laughing. I keep naming things the best I can.

So if you ever see me staring blankly at a common kitchen appliance, or yelling “BROWN! JAMES BROWN!” like I’ve just won a trivia contest—just roll with it.

It’s all part of the ride!

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If this made you laugh (or cry, or both), feel free to share it. You’re not alone in the noun-losing trenches. Parkinson’s can be a relentless trickster, but I’m still here—storytelling, laughing, swearing at my blender, and holding on to every word I can remember.

Thanks for reading.