It Takes an Army...

I went to see an Ologist, cos something wasn’t right.

He said it wasn’t Parkinson’s but then again it might.

He sent me to an I-Atrist to analyse my mind.

She came to the conclusion that my brain was in decline.

She gave me medication that she said would be my saviour

and passed me to an Erapist for cognitive behaviour.

The Nose Consultant grunted at my loss of sense of smell

and a Podi-Something-I-Trist checked the way I walk as well.

An Ologist on sleeping made me spend a night in bed

with cameras and cables all connected to my head.

He diagnosed a sleep disorder known as RBD,

my vivid dreams a clue it seems that this applied to me.

But none of these had yet addressed the stiffness in my joints.

A Neuro-Fizzy-Erapist soon covered off those points.

A Gastro Geezer checked my gut and called a Dietitian

who gave the usual lecture for a man in my condition.

My skin required an Ologist but of the Derma kind

A Uro-loggist stuck a finger right up my …

Behind all these conditions all the Ologists agreed

that my problems must have all been caused by Parkinson’s indeed.

I thought this diagnosis had concluded my adventure

when another flipping I-Atrist told me I’d got Dementia.

Five Ologists, four I-Atrists, three Erapists and teams,

a Pharmacist to manage twenty pills a day plus creams,

the PD nurses who provide the best advice of all

and bless my darling wife and kids who catch me when I fall,

the fundraisers, and researchers, the volunteers and friends,

the PUK Support Groups, the story never ends.

The Parkinson’s community’s a massive loving army…

but all the bloody Ologists still drive me fucking barmy!