I recently turned 50 years old, and I can’t wrap my head around it. When I think of how I define myself, when I think of who I am, I picture the guy in the photo above. I picture a carefree young fool. Someone not concerned about the future, not wondering where the past has gone. Someone in his 20’s, maybe 30’s. But fifty? Being a wildlife biologist by education, I know that the southern reticulated Cedric (DAMMITUS baldheadii) just doesn’t live that long – not in the wild nor in captivity.

I didn’t like turning 40, but I knew it was going to happen; I understood it was going to happen. But fifty seems old to me, and even when my Parkinson’s symptoms are at their worst, I don’t feel like I’m getting old; I feel like I’m young and sick. This being a Parkinson’s blog, I know that many of my readers are significantly older than 50. Maybe you’re sympathetic, remembering when you were turning 50 yourself. Or maybe you think I’m being a big baby; that 50 is nothing compared to 60 (or 70, or 80). Don’t get me wrong – I’m not depressed about turning 50, I just don’t feel like it’s real.