I’ve always been a baseball fan. How could I not be? My dad grew up in Brooklyn during the golden days of the Dodgers. When the team left for Los Angeles, he jumped ship to the Yankees. Then came Darryl Strawberry and the ’80s Mets, and just like that, his allegiance shifted again. But mine? I’ve stayed true to the Yankees. That said, I’ll cheer for the Mets and even the Dodgers—as long as they’re not playing the Yankees.

Now, a generation later, my 28-year-old daughter has taken up the mantle. She’s a baseball fan too—specifically, of the Oakland A’s. Yes—Oakland, even though they’ve now left Oakland. Thanks to her, I’m watching a lot more baseball these days. And she’s been surprisingly receptive to my lineup of classic baseball movies—maybe because they’re actually good, or maybe because I raised her right. One that stands out to me is 42, about Jackie Robinson.

When I watched the film the other day it made me realize I’m sometimes like Jackie Robinson dancing between second and third bases, trying to time the moment just right to steal the next position. I often feel like I’m caught between apathy and anxiety—each with a strong pull. It’s a strange place to live: heart pounding, mind foggy, stuck in motion and stillness at the same time.

This is where anxiety waits.
Not like a gentle push, but like a pitcher watching me too closely. Like the stadium lights are too bright. Like every muscle is tensed and every thought is firing at once. I can’t stay still, and yet I can’t move.

So I dance. Not gracefully. Not even with confidence.
But I shift my weight back and forth between two emotional poles, caught between caring too much and not caring at all. Some days, it feels like the worst of both worlds.

Second base, for me, is apathy.
It’s where I land after I’ve faced something hard—grief, overwhelm (even when it’s from a good time), a wave of depression, or simply a day when the dopamine deficit takes its toll. I’ve handled it, sort of. I’m still standing. But I’m tired. Parkinson’s tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t get better with rest. Not just “I need a nap” tired—more like “I need a nap from my nap” tired. I know I can’t stay here forever, but I also can’t always choose when I can move.

Third base, though—that’s energy.
That’s action. Creativity. Purpose. Or at least the illusion of it, before I remember I left my coffee in the microwave three hours ago. It’s the thing I want to move toward, but also the thing that scares me. What if I leave second too soon and get caught? What if I make the move and it’s the wrong one? What if I try and…fail?

But lately, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to steal third.
It means I’ve taken care of something—I’ve survived second base. I put something hard behind me. And now, maybe, I’m ready to risk moving forward. Maybe the energy at third isn’t terrifying—it’s inviting. It’s not pressure, it’s potential.

Stealing third takes nerve – something I sorely lack due to the loss of dopamine in my brain.
And trust in my ability – something that has greatly diminished due to having PD.
And timing – I can’t feel the passage of time or keep track of time very well either.

So if I try, it doesn’t always work. Living with Parkinson’s disease adds its own rules to the game. Some days my body won’t cooperate, even when my mind is ready. It will shut down with fatigue, I might trip and sometimes fall. Or I can’t do a damn thing with my hands – no writing, no typing, no slicing bread. Other days, my mind spirals into feeling overwhelmed, while my body pretends everything is fine. One too many social activities or doctor appointments in the same week or just one too many emails or phone calls is enough to tip the scale. It’s not just emotional fatigue. It’s neurological. It’s chemical. It’s real. And the Academy Award for “Best Performance by a Nervous System in Denial” goes to… me.

But each day is a new game with another opportunity to run the bases or maybe hit a home run. Ahhhh, a home run. Wouldn’t that be nice? A home run is waking up in the morning feeling absolutely great physically and mentally, accomplishing a lot of tasks, going to appointments, and maybe meeting a friend for lunch at a favorite restaurant. Then ending your day feeling no fatigue, no pain, no confusion. You’ve won the day! I haven’t had a home run in a very long time. But, I’m still in the game.

I live with Parkinson’s disease, and I want to tell the truth about what PD really feels like—because behind the symptoms are stories that matter. Stories that anyone can understand, that anyone might recognize. Stories that can change how the world sees Parkinson’s.
“A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.” – Jackie Robinson

*Image of Jackie Robinson was sourced from a search for copyright free images. This image use is only intended to compliment the content of this blog post. It is not for commercial use.