The in-laws

Saturday 25 November

I last saw my mother-in-law about a year ago.

"I haven't met you before,” she remarked as I walked through the door.

"Yes you have," I offered politely. "I'm Clara's husband."

She looked a little embarrassed but also seemed pleased to realise that her youngest daughter was married, and periodically smiled at me for the remainder of my visit.

Her Alzheimer's was already reasonably far progressed at that time but sadly has moved on to an even more advanced stage since then.

I have been spared the ordeal of watching someone gradually deteriorate both physically and mentally but Clara and her stoic father have tackled it head on. Clara has been nothing short of legendary in the support of her parents – as well as dealing with the emotional side, she has organised everything from carers, hospital beds and hoists to weekly grocery deliveries, roof repairs and plumbing.

Throughout the year, she has faithfully visited them at least fortnightly, sometimes twice in one week, each time an eight-hour round trip to the house where they have lived for the past 30 years.

Until now.

For Clara has arranged for her parents, and their live-in carer, to spend their remaining years in a flat a few doors down the road from us. There are still a lot of logistics to sort out but the aim is to complete the move in time for Christmas.

Clara’s mum and I both suffer from incurable neurodegenerative diseases. Thankfully mine does not (at least not yet) involve any dementia. Once she moves down the road, she will struggle to recognise her own daughter, let alone her son-in-law. For myself, as far as I can tell, I still have all my memories – and marbles – intact. 

After the move happens, Clara’s mum is likely too far gone to even notice the difference, but the hope is that for Clara’s dad the move south will give him a new lease of life. Clara and I should be able to see him regularly and take him to the local park, or a nearby art gallery, or the occasional meal out.

The situation reminds me that more important than myself are those around me. The focus now is on making Clara’s dad’s remaining years as joyful as possible and I am looking forward to being part of that.

Similarly, I am starting to think ahead about how I can avoid my later years becoming all about me; instead I want them to be happy ones for Clara, Rosa and others.

Mini Marathon

Friday 3 November 2017

A year ago this weekend, I ran the New York marathon, two months before I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s.

This was the culmination of a target I had set myself a decade earlier to complete all six marathon majors.  Having run London in 1998 and Chicago in 2006 I had narrowly made the qualifying time for the prestigious Boston marathon, which I completed in 2008.  I followed this with runs in Berlin (2013), Tokyo (February 2017) and finally New York (November 2017).

My rush to complete the series last year was strangely prescient. I think I subconsciously knew my body was in rapid decline and was spurred on to get the remaining physical challenges in my life out of the way.

In truth, I was not a very good marathon runner.  My best time was 3:12 in Chicago, decent by most standards, but I should have been comfortably a sub 3-hour runner in my day as I had a best half marathon time of 1:20 and I was consistently a 35/36-minute 10K runner.

I really struggled to make the distance in New York, completing the race in 4:18 which was way below what my training had suggested and over half an hour slower than in Tokyo only a few months earlier.  The crowds, particularly in the last 3 miles around Central Park, were incredible, the loudest of any of my races.  But even they couldn’t lift me from my painful plod to the finish line.

During the previous two years, I’d had a string of injury problems: mainly in my foot, but I also had problems with my hip and my Achilles tendon.  Always on the right-hand side.  I went for a number of sports massage and physio sessions but the problems kept recurring. 

Of course, now I know why.

It’s odd to think that I was running a marathon with Parkinson’s.  Ironically, I had been tempted to raise money for Parkinson’s as my mother had been recently diagnosed at the time, put I plumped instead for Alzheimer’s Research in support of my mother-in-law, bringing in over £3,000 thanks to the generosity of friends and colleagues.

Despite my struggles on the streets of Queens, the Bronx and Manhattan, I was proud to have completed my odyssey and proud to have raised a decent chunk of money for a good cause.

I am now back to running twice a week (and I try to use the exercise bike at other times). The Professor and the Parkinson’s Nurse have both stressed to me the importance of exercise. Although you will find many other anecdotes online, I’m told that exercise is the only thing known for sure to slow progression of the disease. 

These days I can only manage 5K, but in some ways running 5K reminds me of running a marathon. During a marathon, you go through phases and have good and bad patches. When I run my 5K round the local park, it’s a similar feeling.

The first two kilometres are relatively smooth and steady as I am energised and my legs feel good.  In the third kilometre, I start to struggle a little with a tightness in my chest and a lame feeling in my right leg. The gentle hill in the middle of the park feels much steeper than it actually is. In the fourth kilometre, my right foot starts to trouble me and my breathing is heavy but I push on. And in the final kilometre I force myself to the finish, but it is now that I also have to be very careful.  My right leg is sluggish and I can easily twist my ankle on a kerb or trip on an uneven pavement. 

I have completed my mini marathon and treat myself to a bath and a snack.

On a good day, I can just about manage 25 minutes, but more commonly I run 26 or 27 minutes.  Again, to some people this might sound quite reasonable, but for me it is a world away from my 5K best of a little over 16 minutes.

Occasionally I can’t manage a full 5K and I just run a 3K loop close to home. Fortunately, I have come to terms with my new limitations and am no longer disappointed at being overtaken by faster runners.

Although I now get minimal pleasure during my runs, I feel better for them afterwards and I know my efforts each week are good for me, both physically and psychologically.

I make a promise to myself to keep running, whatever the pace and whatever the distance, for as long as I can still put one foot in front of the other.