Today four mild doctors on the Upright East Side, four Mosi from Mount Sinai, tell me it's Parkinson's.
No. It's not.
They turn my hands and watch me walk, hold one arm and elbow while making me touch finger to thumb, and they nod and query—did you know you do not swing your right arm when you walk?—and whisper and type, and because they are The Best I get quality eye-contact and bright sentences and a sincere promise to monitor my decay every four months from here on in.
From here on in.