Parkinson

Have you ever flown a commercial airline that offers open seating? You print your ticket early so you can get into boarding group A. You board with the first passengers and pick a window seat near the front. Life is sweet. Moments later, a gentleman takes the aisle seat in your row. It's all good! Now comes the nervous part. For the next 10 minutes you hope against hope that your row's center seat will remain open. That possibility becomes dicey as the plane fills up. Finally, you reconcile yourself to the fact that you'll likely acquire a seatmate.

Last week's column on Parkinson's disease elicited some unexpected responses ("Fighting a daily battle," Nov. 29) . In the column, I described my six-year battle with the disease. Two gents whom I went to school with in Costa Mesa — and haven't heard from in decades — independently contacted me. They both suffer from the disease as well. That brings to four the number of fellows I attended Lindbergh School, Everett A. Rea Junior High and Costa Mesa High schools with who have Parkinson's.

Several nights ago I dreamed I met heavyweight boxing champ and cultural icon, Muhammad Ali. He turned 70 last week. Though I've been a fan for decades, I confess I've never dreamed of him before. The setting was a surreal, red carpet-like environment, and I was positioned behind a roped-off area with hundreds of other fans. He stood before us, unsmiling, distinguished, regal. He must have been 10 feet tall. Impetuously, I ducked beneath the restraining rope and sprinted over to where he was, catching the security guard's unawares.

My friend and I are more than pals. We've become, well, brothers. It's no different than what I experienced decades ago when I served in the U.S. military and had a number of Army "brothers. " They were my closest buddies. I would have willingly given my life for them, and they — astonishingly — would have done the same for me. That's not unusual. It's been that way with armies for centuries. Soldiers sharing foxholes fight not just for themselves but for the guys to their left and right.

Editor's note: This corrects the caption on the photo of Allison Smith-Conway. The Foundation for Neurosciences Stroke and Recovery is not affiliated with Hoag Memorial Hospital Presbyterian. NEWPORT BEACH — Total well-being requires a balance between body and mind, but Parkinson's patients undergoing surgery and treatment often struggle to find that harmony, a therapeutic fitness coach said this week. "Every one of the doctors have a specialty and they're incredibly good at that specialty," said Allison Smith-Conway, executive director of movement disorders for the Foundation for Neurosciences Stroke and Recovery.

I was led quite by accident last week to peruse a pair of highly absorbing memoirs. That's the nice thing about being retired. You have time to indulge your reading passions, from selections on the latest bestseller lists to enduring works you've long wanted to dust off. Last week's two memoirs were written by authentic American heroes who've lost successful careers to unfortunate circumstances. My first read was retired four-star Gen. Stanley McChrystal's weighty tome, "My Share of the Task.

On a couple of occasions I've mentioned in this space that I have Parkinson's disease. I was diagnosed nearly five years ago. Parkinson's is a brain disorder that manifests itself when certain nerve cells die or become impaired. The cells produce dopamine, a chemical that permits the body fluidity of movement. Signs of the disease include tremor or shaking, slowness of movement, rigidity or stiffness, and balance problems. It can also reveal itself in a shuffling gate, muffled speech or diction and depression.

I inherited an appreciation for slapstick humor from my father. Back in the late 1960s and early '70s, he and I enjoyed watching "The Carol Burnett Show" on TV. We roared at comedy sketches featuring Carol, Harvey Korman and Vicki Lawrence, but our favorite cast member was Tim Conway. We particularly loved Conway's character The Old Man. Remember him? Possessor of a disheveled gray mane, he had an expressionless facial mask, spoke with a mumble and walked with a shuffling gate.

Virginia E. Lopez Mud Flats. Dredge and fill yourself. $45,000. Tempting real estate offer, huh? Back in 1904, oil millionaire, W.K. Parkinson must have seen something in that offer that no one else did. He accepted this offer from the Southern Pacific/Pacific Electric Railroad. Parkinson envisioned those "mud flats" as an island -- an island capable of rivaling those of the Mediterranean area, from the red tile roofs built around patios and stradas, to the familiar resort city names of Barcelona, Genoa, Nice, Ithaca that were added to the street signs.

I first saw him one Sunday morning as I exited church. A man in his early 50s, he was carrying boxes to an information table at the back of the church. His hands were trembling in a way that was familiar to me. My heart went out to him. "Look," I whispered to my wife, Hedy. "That fellow has Parkinson's. " I know something about the disease. My dad had it. I have it. Parkinson's is a degenerative brain disorder with no known cure. It causes nerve cells to die or become impaired, and patients exhibit such symptoms as tremors or shaking, slowness of movement, rigidity or stiffness, and balance difficulties.

I was led quite by accident last week to peruse a pair of highly absorbing memoirs. That's the nice thing about being retired. You have time to indulge your reading passions, from selections on the latest bestseller lists to enduring works you've long wanted to dust off. Last week's two memoirs were written by authentic American heroes who've lost successful careers to unfortunate circumstances. My first read was retired four-star Gen. Stanley McChrystal's weighty tome, "My Share of the Task.

I first saw him one Sunday morning as I exited church. A man in his early 50s, he was carrying boxes to an information table at the back of the church. His hands were trembling in a way that was familiar to me. My heart went out to him. "Look," I whispered to my wife, Hedy. "That fellow has Parkinson's. " I know something about the disease. My dad had it. I have it. Parkinson's is a degenerative brain disorder with no known cure. It causes nerve cells to die or become impaired, and patients exhibit such symptoms as tremors or shaking, slowness of movement, rigidity or stiffness, and balance difficulties.

My friend and I are more than pals. We've become, well, brothers. It's no different than what I experienced decades ago when I served in the U.S. military and had a number of Army "brothers. " They were my closest buddies. I would have willingly given my life for them, and they — astonishingly — would have done the same for me. That's not unusual. It's been that way with armies for centuries. Soldiers sharing foxholes fight not just for themselves but for the guys to their left and right.

Have you ever flown a commercial airline that offers open seating? You print your ticket early so you can get into boarding group A. You board with the first passengers and pick a window seat near the front. Life is sweet. Moments later, a gentleman takes the aisle seat in your row. It's all good! Now comes the nervous part. For the next 10 minutes you hope against hope that your row's center seat will remain open. That possibility becomes dicey as the plane fills up. Finally, you reconcile yourself to the fact that you'll likely acquire a seatmate.

As the 2012 Olympics sailing events begin Sunday, one Newport Beach family will be remembering the accomplishments of their father. Ted Hinshaw was the 1984 Olympic Games yachting commissioner and organized the sailing events in Long Beach. Hinshaw died July 24 at Hoag Hospital fromParkinson's-related complications, his son Marc said. He was 83. From the world stage to Newport Harbor youth competitions, Hinshaw managed sailing events and organizations, drawing on his financial and business experience.

I inherited an appreciation for slapstick humor from my father. Back in the late 1960s and early '70s, he and I enjoyed watching "The Carol Burnett Show" on TV. We roared at comedy sketches featuring Carol, Harvey Korman and Vicki Lawrence, but our favorite cast member was Tim Conway. We particularly loved Conway's character The Old Man. Remember him? Possessor of a disheveled gray mane, he had an expressionless facial mask, spoke with a mumble and walked with a shuffling gate.

My wife and I have been retired from our respective professions for nearly four years. I'd wager that Hedy and I have seen more of each other over the last 48 months than we did the previous 396 months of our 37-year marriage. If I didn't know better, I'd say we're now joined at the hip. We accompany one another almost everywhere: navigating the teeming aisles of our local supermarket; picking up our granddaughter from kindergarten and stealing away for ice cream; perusing recent works by the literati while quaffing caffeine-laden drinks at Starbucks; breakfasting at IHOP; and sharing a tub of buttered popcorn at a senior matinee.

Several nights ago I dreamed I met heavyweight boxing champ and cultural icon, Muhammad Ali. He turned 70 last week. Though I've been a fan for decades, I confess I've never dreamed of him before. The setting was a surreal, red carpet-like environment, and I was positioned behind a roped-off area with hundreds of other fans. He stood before us, unsmiling, distinguished, regal. He must have been 10 feet tall. Impetuously, I ducked beneath the restraining rope and sprinted over to where he was, catching the security guard's unawares.

Last week's column on Parkinson's disease elicited some unexpected responses ("Fighting a daily battle," Nov. 29) . In the column, I described my six-year battle with the disease. Two gents whom I went to school with in Costa Mesa — and haven't heard from in decades — independently contacted me. They both suffer from the disease as well. That brings to four the number of fellows I attended Lindbergh School, Everett A. Rea Junior High and Costa Mesa High schools with who have Parkinson's.

Just like clockwork, I awake every morning at 5:45. No matter the season, no matter the time zone. While in Russia last summer — 11 time zones to the east — I awoke at 5:45. I arose this morning at 5:45. My body's a precision machine, though lately it hasn't felt much like one, certainly not of the "lean-and-mean" variety. My machine shows considerable wear and corrosion. One reason for my daybreak punctuality, I believe, is because my body is craving medication.