Dr. Strange Me - or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace F*cking Parkinson’s Disease

There’s a version of this story some people think you’re supposed to tell. It’s the one where you find the silver lining. Where you talk about resilience. Where you say things like, “We’re managing.”

I’ve told that version. I’ve lived inside it. But today I’m not interested in that story. Today I’m angry. And I have the right to be. Shout out to Michael J. Fox and Harrison Ford for lighting the fuse with permission to use two words as a rally cry: “Fuck Parkinson’s.”

A few years after my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease (PD) in 2001, while out on the road for the first Boys of Summer trip, we were told there would be a cure within 10 years. Ten years. That felt both terrifying and hopeful…most of all, manageable. 

It didn’t happen.

By 2014, the message evolved. Not a cure, but something close: “We’re on the verge of halting progression.”

Not fixing it. Not reversing it. But stopping it where it is.

My dad said, “Deal.”

Didn’t happen part two.

Now it’s 2026. I'm a doctor myself. “Doctor Strange Me” is my new moniker, because that’s what it feels like trying to find, shape, and amplify voices that can accelerate the cure through storytelling. The dissertation is here if you want the foundation. More of it is in the latest Boys of Summer (Third Base), premiering at the World Parkinson’s Congress in May 2026.

So what do we have - globally - to deal with Parkinson’s today? Ideas. Lots of ideas. 

Which is great. Ideas are necessary, inspirational, and the seeds of progress.

But ideas without urgency? Ideas without the necessary funding? Ideas without the willingness to fail fast and often?

They’re just… ideas.

Meanwhile, Parkinson’s doesn’t deal in ideas. It deals in reality. And the progression my dad is facing today, 25 years since his diagnosis really sucks.

Here’s his reality:

His favorite activity, golf? Gone.

Driving? Gone.

Walking? Gone.

Independence, that he once said he didn’t think he wanted to live without? Gone.

His voice? Almost gone.

His clarity? Fading, inch by inch, in ways that are impossible to fully describe unless you’ve lived it.

What he once defined as “quality of life”? That ship didn’t just sail—it disappeared over the horizon years ago.

And what are we supposed to say about that? “Too bad?” “Bummer?” “That’s life?”

Sometimes people follow up with, “So how old is your dad?” 81, I tell them. Because his age might lead to an easy out: well, we all get old. That’s true. People ask how much of this is Parkinson’s—and how much is aging. It's a legitimate question. But there are plenty of relatively, independent, healthy 81 year olds driving, golfing, and living a life my dad wishes he could. His dad certainly did. But not my dad - and it’s directly because of fucking Parkinson’s disease. 

So no, that’s not me today. Today I’m rejecting the polite script.

Today I’m giving myself permission: Permission to be angry. Permission to feel the full weight of what this disease has taken. Permission to call bullshit when I see it.

Because there’s a lot of bullshit.

Parkinson’s is often framed like it’s some random lightning strike. Bad luck. Genetics. One of those things. My dad said that exact line in the first Boys of Summer film back in 2004. He was early onset back then. The “Honeymoon phase” as some have called it - and here’s to hoping we stop doing using that misnomer. My dad may have even said, “it’s not that bad”...then. I challenge any of you to say that about how he’s living with it now. He won’t. When I ask him what I can get for him he says “A new body.”

The longer you live with PD, the worse it gets - that’s 100 percent. And the more you learn about the fastest growing neurological disease in the world, the more uncomfortable the truth becomes: This disease is, in many cases, preventable. Environmental toxins, manmade, widely distributed, largely unregulated, are part of the story. They’re in the air. In the water. In the soil. In the food.

We are all exposed. Again: it’s the fastest growing neurological disease in the world and yet we keep moving through it, past it, around it like it’s fine.

Like it’s normal or “not that bad.”

“It’s not that bad” might be the most dangerous sentence in the Parkinson’s lexicon.

Because it dulls urgency. It numbs healthy outrage. It makes the unacceptable feel tolerable. It turns a crisis into background noise. A big, warm bowl of it’s not that bad soup. You eat it. I choose to fuck it. Or at least do my best to fuck with it. 

That’s what this Deadpool Cinema Therapy program is all about. If you’re ready to lean into your anger, fear, frustration in a positive, creative way and use that fuel to get others to join us, please sign up today.

Just in case you’re concerned: This isn’t about giving up hope. It’s the opposite. This is about reclaiming power. Because anger, real, grounded, honest and healthy anger directed at amplification to help move this mountain toward a cure, isn’t the enemy. It’s our superpower.

It’s the thing that says: this matters, that refuses to normalize suffering, that pushes us to demand more; more research, more funding, more accountability, more urgency.

If we want a cure, or even something close, we need to accelerate the pace of failure.

More trials. More risks. More Success Stories™. More swings and misses.

Because every failed attempt is a step closer to something that works. But that only happens if we invest like it matters - our time, our effort, our voices - while we have them. 

If we act like time matters. If we stop pretending this is okay. If we stop pretending someone else will take care of it, knowing it’s up to each of us to do our part. And yes, exploring, discovering, and sharing your Success Story™ could be a big part of doing your part.

So no neat bow today. I’m not going to tell you everything happens for a reason. I’m not going to say we’re lucky in some twisted, poetic way. It’s not that those are impossible thoughts or never true - they’re just not real for me right this minute. And I’m giving myself permission to be angry, too. 

I will say this:

I love my dad. What Parkinson’s has done to his life is not acceptable.

Not “unfortunate.” Not “part of the journey.” Not “just the way things go.”

Not acceptable.

And maybe that’s where this begins: after acceptance, into refusal. Refusal to minimize, normalize, or quietly endure. Because if enough of us stop eating the soup…Maybe we start changing the recipe. 

If you feel this, don’t just “like” or open the next page. Get involved by clicking here. Let’s do something together.