Let’s talk about masks—and no, I’m not talking about those awful plastic Halloween masks from the 1980s that cut into your face and made you sweat like a pig while trick-or-treating. But the concept? Pretty damn close. I’m talking about the Parkinson’s mask.
And before we dive in, no, I’m not talking about the lack of facial expression people associate with Parkinson’s. That’s not “masking”—that’s just looking pissed, confused, or like you’ve got permanent RBF. Quick note on that, though: I lost facial expressions long before I was diagnosed. My students used to ask why I always looked mad, and I’d tell them, “I’m not.” My wife taught at the same school for a few years, and colleagues would ask her the same thing. So yes, there’s a facial mask in Parkinson’s—but that’s not the mask I’m talking about today.
The mask I’m talking about is the one we put on to cover up our symptoms.
When you’re newly diagnosed, you learn fast: people freak out when they see something “different.” Have dystonia in the middle of Target? People think you’re on meth. So what’s the alternative? We put on a mask.
We work our asses off to hide symptoms for as long as possible. No one wants to walk into a room shaking like a leaf or twisting from dyskinesia. But here’s the tricky part—if we’re masking our symptoms, are we really accepting the reality of our diagnosis?
And yes, I said fate. I’ve lost people to complications from Parkinson’s. Just to be clear, you don’t technically “die from” Parkinson’s—but you can die from the complications. It’s not fatal in the same way some other diseases are, but it sure as hell complicates your life.
So here’s the mask dilemma: if I cover up my disease in public, am I hiding who I really am? Parkinson’s isn’t just physical—it’s mental, emotional, and everything in between. Masking isn’t just about covering a tremor.
And believe me, there are ways to hide it:
- Tremor in your hand? Hold something or shove your hands in your pockets.
- Shuffling feet? Stay put—or walk faster so you don’t trip. (Yes, our brains are weird enough that this actually works.)
But that’s just the surface. We interact with people all day while keeping the disease tucked away. We mask because we want to fit into a society that treats “different” like “outsider.” We don’t want pity or pampering, so we mask. Sometimes we even mask to convince ourselves the doctors were wrong—that maybe we don’t actually have Parkinson’s.
It’s easier to pretend nothing’s wrong than to let reality smack you in the face like a wet pool noodle.
Think about it—when you see someone bald from chemo, people treat them differently. Someone in a wheelchair gets the “white glove” treatment. Blind or deaf? People act like they have a rare form of leprosy. All these conditions deserve respect, but most people with disabilities don’t want special treatment—they want equal treatment. Sure, we may need occasional help, but that’s not special treatment; that’s just adapting to the situation.
So with Parkinson’s, we mask until we’re ready to face the ugly truth of what this disease does. Dropping the mask comes with a cost. It might mean going out in public more often, attending social gatherings, or trying something new—knowing it will expose your symptoms. Not feeling well? The mask says, “Go home.” The unmasked you says, “Screw it, move however you want.” But not everyone gets that. So you end up with people staring, whispering, or making comments.
You can either:
- Flip them the bird and move on.
- Head home and avoid the hassle.
- Learn to roll with it.
Personally, I vote for #1. But the healthiest choice is probably #3.
Learning to roll with it in public is no small feat. And the real kicker? Parkinson’s never sticks to a schedule. You could be grocery shopping, and—bam—your brain pulls the plug on your body. Suddenly, you’re stuck, helpless.
The more we learn to unmask, the more we survive this unpredictable, all-consuming disease. Life is about experiences. Hiding behind a mask isn’t living—it’s just existing.
PD Unfiltered 
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