Salon.com > Judy Oppenheimer

“Law and Order: SVU” diagnosed my Parkinson’s

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 01:00:00 +0000

People always want to know how you got a certain disease. They’re thinking of themselves, of course — the sore throat, the odd bruise on the wrist, that lingering cough. But people are surprised when I tell them how I discovered I had Parkinson's. I was watching "Law and Order: SVU."

I had flipped on a rerun, which I do when I’m tired and bored. It's better than reality TV, and it's reliable. There’s always an episode of "Law and Order" playing somewhere.

I’d seen this one before, so I was paying minimal attention. I flipped through a magazine. A man, shaking badly, was telling the detectives about his disease, Parkinson’s. Years ago he’d started having symptoms. He listed them.

I put down the magazine. A chill ran up the back of my neck. I had every single one.

Why hadn’t I suspected anything was wrong until then? Easy. I had found a way to explain away every problem I encountered. My car key didn’t open the door without a struggle? It must have gotten bent somehow. My can opener didn’t work anymore? Ditto. My favorite cutting knife couldn’t seem to do the job right? Fine, I’d replace it one of these days. What did any of this have to do with me?

They ask if I’m from New York

Wed, 22 Nov 2000 20:30:00 +0000

"You're from New York, right?"

I wish I had a buck for every time someone had asked me that over the years. It wouldn't make me rich, but I'd definitely have enough for a nice weekend getaway -- hotel, sauna, massage, dinner, the works.

I have nothing against New York, which I visit a couple of times a year. But I wasn't born there and have never lived there; ditto for parents, grandparents and so on, straight back through the entire genetic line. I have no connection -- historical, philosophical or linguistic -- to the Big Apple. I don't look, dress or sound like a New Yorker.

What I am, though, is Jewish.

"Aren't you from New York?"

The people who've asked me this over the years would be shocked at any suggestion that they are being racist. Their vocabularies are devoid of epithets. They would fiercely contest the idea that they cherish stereotyped notions about any group of people.

"Now, you came from New York originally, didn't you?"

For the first 20 times or so, I reacted politely, smiling as I shook my head. Then I started to get annoyed. The comment came so often, always posed the same way, with the same raised eyebrows, the same knowing glint. "I've nailed you," it said; "I've got your number. I know."

Dying with dignity

Tue, 05 Sep 2000 19:30:00 +0000

Old age, and the necessity to prepare for it, are hot topics of late. We are urged, those of us moving into middle age, to ready our families for the decline. We must discuss "arrangements" -- nursing home, retirement village or Leisure World -- while preparing living wills and making sure that everyone knows our wishes, pull-the-plug-wise.

This makes sense, especially as it has become apparent to me that certain relatively common side effects of old age are ones I would prefer to forgo. Senile dementia, for instance. I've seen the effects in my own family. To my thinking, senile dementia is a good place to make one's exit. Who would want to stick around for that? (Assuming, of course, one has the presence of mind to know exactly when senile dementia has arrived.)

Consequently, I decide to announce to my two sons, each of them in turn, that I do not intend to go through anything like that. No way. If I start to slip, if my mind starts to dim, they are to escort me to the balcony and give me a push.

I spend time phrasing this request, to give it both the impact and the weight it deserves. My sons, I feel modestly, will undoubtedly be impressed with my foresight, my trust in them and my discernible courage.