Socializing used to come naturally to me. These days, every gathering feels like both a gift and a challenge. Parkinson’s has changed how I show up, how long I last, and even how I find my words.

My Parkinson’s diagnosis coincided with COVID shutting everything down. No social events. Not in person anyway. Thank goodness for Zoom!

I don’t know the stats on people returning to their usual social activities after COVID. Same? Increased? Decreased? I’m in the latter category. But for me, it’s not that COVID turned me into a homebody—it’s Parkinson’s fault.

Movies, Theatre, and Overwhelm

Because of unexplainable, immeasurable anxiety and overwhelm, I’ve turned down many social events I used to attend. No more movies: the sound is too loud for my nervous system, and the films are too emotionally intense. Comedy, animation, action—it doesn’t matter. The same goes for live theatre. It’s hard to concentrate on the actors and dialogue, and even harder to return to reality afterward. Just sitting in the audience, letting stories unfold, drains me.

Losing Words in Conversation

I also stumble on my words now. I forget names. I get stuck mid-sentence searching for words that feel locked in my brain. Sometimes I lose my train of thought entirely—even as I’m talking.

After the usual “How are you?” greeting, I answer honestly: “I’m good today,” or “I’m off today,” or “I’ve got a lot of pain today,” or “I’m tired today.” But if the conversation goes beyond a couple of lines, the stumbling begins. My only defense is to be upfront: “By the way, I have Parkinson’s now, so I forget words.”

A Party I Couldn’t Miss

Yesterday I went to a party I wasn’t going to miss for the world—a reunion of beloved colleagues from 30+ years ago. I had a plan to protect myself from overwhelm. I arrived an hour in and left two hours before the expected end.

My son came with me to keep an eye on things. He made sure I drank water, sat down, leaned on my cane, or held his arm. He even played photographer, capturing my greetings with old friends. Most importantly, he told me when it was time to go and made sure my exit was swift, not lingering.

The event left me feeling just right emotionally. Not overwhelming. Heartwarming. A deep sense of acceptance and being loved.

Home Again

When I got home, my dog greeted me with her usual atomic enthusiasm. I put my bag on the kitchen table, hung up my jacket, and grabbed something to eat—I hadn’t eaten at the party. (Long story short: I can’t eat a lot of “normal” foods.)

Then I settled into a chair in the living room with some original Star Trek. Comfort food for the soul. Before long, I’d morphed into stone—or maybe just a giant sloth.

Lessons from the Sloth

So what’s a sloth to do if they want to go to a party but can’t manage the pace? Normally, I’d wander, hug people, and have little conversations. My son kept me from overdoing it, but it’s impossible to measure the emotional output. Sometimes I wish I had gauges strapped to me, tracking my energy and emotional reserves like the mileage on my EV. But I don’t.

Maybe next year I’ll try a new tactic: find a central spot where people naturally pass, sit there, say hello, and collect hugs as they come by. Will it work? I don’t know.

Why I Keep Showing Up

What I do know is that I can’t stop seeing people—especially the ones I love: family, friends, colleagues from long ago. A lifetime of memories lives there, rich with joy, laughter, accomplishments, tough times, loss, failures, lessons learned, and above all, love. I can’t miss out on that.

The people in my life are my best medicine, and they are the meaning I can measure my life by.