Murder on The Dance Floor: The Parkinson’s Excuse Me

The night I started to wonder if I had some sort of neurological issue, I was at a charity summer disco in 2019 with my wife, Cathy.

I’ve always been a self-conscious dancer, so I really need to feel the music to get me anywhere near a dance floor. At university in the late 80s, you could find me bopping away at the end of term Union disco. Transvision Vamp’s Wendy James, “didn’t want my money honey” she just wanted “my love” and that was enough to get me moving. You might also find me in the B-52s “Love Shack,” “Walking on Sunshine” with Katrina and the Waves, or imagining I was Roachford’s “Cuddly Toy.”

Once I left university, the next time I really let myself go on the dance floor was my first date with Cathy in Singapore in 2004, some 15 years later. Clubbing wasn’t really my thing, and in the future, I would rarely strut my stuff with Cathy other than at the odd wedding. She reluctantly came to accept my lack of dancing shoes. That summer night in 2019, however, I thought it was about time I showed Cathy I still had some semblance of rhythm, even if most of my moves were from the ‘school of dad’ rather than Travolta.

The night started well. Some old-school ABBA tunes got me on the floor after a few beers. Cathy was in her element, enjoying the rare opportunity to dance the night away. It was then that the tempo changed, with the DJ switching to some ‘R n B’ which required not only a sense of rhythm but the ability to move your body with it. It was at this point I started to slow down, struggling to keep in time. After a minute, I found my feet rooted to the spot. I continued to try and move my arms, hoping no one would notice. Feeling really awkward and self-conscious, I leaned over to Cathy and said I’d had enough and wanted to go.

It was hard trying to explain what I was feeling and experiencing, with the music so loud on the dance floor. I think Cathy thought I was just being a killjoy and didn’t want to leave, so I walked home by myself. We only lived a few streets away, and she followed me home shortly after, but I remember that walk home feeling very anxious and alone.

The next day I just put it down to my poor dad dancing and larger-than-average beer consumption. But just under a year later, I had my Parkinson’s diagnosis. 

The music hadn’t stopped—my body just couldn’t keep up with the beat.