Always Looking Up:the Adventures Of An Incurable Optimist

Always Looking Up
 
 
Read on to see how Michael J. Fox became an incurable optimist.

 
There are many words to describe Michael J. Fox, but only one truly conveys everything that he is: optimist. A follow-up to the New York Times bestseller Lucky Man, Always Looking Up begins with Michael's emotional retirement from Spin City, and his off-camera struggle with Parkinson's and all the unwanted changes it brought along. Told with the trademark wit and humour that garnered Michael J. Fox devoted fans across the world, Always Looking Up is a journey of self-discovery, reinvention, and a tribute to finding the positive in everything.

Prologue
 
In the opening pages of Lucky Man, I described a morning in Florida nineteen years ago when I woke up with a hangover and a twitching left pinky finger. In the intervening years, my life has seen many changes. Most morning, for example, I awake to find my left pinky perfectly still -- it's the rest of my body that's shaking uncontrollably. Technically, my body is only fully at peace when my mind is completely at rest -- that is, asleep. Low brain activity means fewer neurons firing, or in my case, misfiring. As I awaken, before my conscious mind really knows what's happening, my body has already gotten news in the form of insistent neural instructions to twist, twitch, and contort. Any chance of slipping back into sleep is lost.
 
This morning Tracy is already up, dealing out breakfast and readying the kids for school. I blindly fumble a plastic vial from the nightstand, dry-swallow a couple of pills, and then fall immediately into the first series of actions that, while largely automatic, demand a practiced determination. I swing my legs around to the side of the bed, and the instant my feet hit the floor, the two of them are in argument. A condition called "dystonia," a regular complement to Parkinson's, cramps my feet severely and curls them inward, pressing my ankles toward the floor and the soles of my feet toward each other as though they were about to close together in prayer. I snake my foot out toward the edge of the rug and toe-hook one of my hard leather loafers. I force my foot into the shoe, repeat the process with the left, and then carefully stand up. Chastened by the unyielding confineS of the leather, my feet begin to behave themselves. The spasms have stopped but the aching will persist for the next twenty minutes or so.
 
First stop: the bathroom. I'll spare you the initial detail of my visit, except to say that with PD, it is essential to put the seat up. By now, my right hand has started up again, rotating at the wrist in a circular motion, perfect for what I'm about to do. My left hand guides my right hand up to my mouth, and once the back of the Oral-B touches the inside of my upper lip, I let go. It's like releasing the tension on a slingshot and compares favorably to the most powerful state-of-the-art electric toothbrush on the market. With no off switch, stopping means seizing my right wrist with my left hand forcing it down to the sink basin, and shaking the brush loose as though disarming a knife-wielding attacker. I can usually tell whether shaving is a good idea on any particular day, and this morning, like most, I decide it's too early to risk bloodshed. I opt for a quick pass with an electric stubble trimmer. Miami Vice lives.
 
A bench in the shower takes the pressure off my feet, and the steady drumbeat of the water on my back has a therapeutic effect though if I sit here much longer, I might never get up. Getting dressed is made easier by the pills, which have begun to assert their influence. I avoid clothing with too many buttons or laces, although I'm still addicted to Levi's 501s, making me a fashion victim in the truest sense of the word. In lieu of proper brushing, I raise my twitching fingers up to my hairline and, raking it back, hope for the best. Executing a slow shuffle (my legs haven't yet earned my trust for the day), I make my way out to greet my family.
 
At the turn from our bedroom into the hallway, there is an old full-length mirror in a wooden frame. I can't help but catch a glimpse of myself as I pass. Turning fully toward the glass, I consider what I see. This reflected version of myself, wet, shaking, rumpled, pinched, and slightly stopped, would be alarming were it not for the self-satisfied expression pasted across my face. I would ask the obvious question, "What are you smiling about," but I already know the answer: "It just gets better from here."
 From Always Looking Up. Published by Hyperion. Copyright © 2009 by Michael J. Fox. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Hyperion.
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