Tolerance (DRAFT) P.

Pasmanick was Quasimodoʼs lament I tolerate the tremor, I tolerate the pain, I tolerate obsessive thoughts that echo in my brain. I tolerate insomnia, I tolerate fatigue. I tolerate a yoga class thatʼs way out of my league. I tolerate the doctors, I tolerate their pills I tolerate their co-pays and their unexpected bills. I tolerate how bad I look when posing in a Speedo I tolerate my mood swings and my variable libido. I tolerate my stumbles and I tolerate the punk who sees me stagger down the street and says “That guy is drunk!” I tolerate the pity and the unasked-for advice and gettting help that I donʼt need. Theyʼre trying to be nice. I tolerate the web sites and I post on every forum. I tolerate it when they say my little poems bore ʻem. I tolerate it when my hands turn suddenly all thumbs. I tolerate it when my arms wonʼt let me play the drums. I tolerate it when my voice is too low to be heard. I tolerate repeating the whole sentence word for word. I tolerate the Chinese herbs and monthly acupuncture. (Iʼm willing to try anything at this critical juncture). I tolerate Michael J. Fox with all his trials clinical. I even was a guinea pig (Iʼm not entirely cynical) I tolerate my parkie pals when they get too bummed out. We all get scared, discouraged, racked with sadness, loss and doubt. In short, I tolerate a lot of crap with this disease. But thereʼs one thing I canʼt stand So now bear with me please: My attitude is good, you see in general I feel great! So why do I get all hunched up when I could stand up straight?