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To all list members: After reading Tuesday's massive digest (80+ pages), I was inspired to bring all of you up to date on a significant turn of events in my life. Yesterday, I became a statistic. I now proudly (what other way is there) wear the badge proclaiming me DISABLED. Next Tuesday I begin receiving weekly disability checks from my employer. I'm 53, so that means a very large, very profitable company will fork over NEARLY HALF A MILLION DOLLARS in disability income and medical insurance premiums until I reach age 65. How's that for a statistic to throw at President Clinton in my Udall Bill letter? Funny, I don't feel disabled. Sure, sometimes I walk funny. Other times, it takes ten or 12 jabs to disengage that pesky CAPS LOCK key on my computer. Or my legs practice field goal kicking while I'm stretched out in my recliner engrossed in another episode of "Wheel of Fortune." And today, as I attempted to butter my roll at lunch, I flung soft margarine across the cafeteria when my arm decided to wave the knife over my head. Yes, I am disabled. I can still dress myself, run up and down the spiral staircase in our home, type about 80 wpm when the Sinemet is working, drive (most of the time), make love, pay our bills, take care of my dog Garp, and perform hundreds of other day-to-day tasks we all take for granted. But I can't work. Why? I hear you ask. Because Parkinson's apparently has robbed me of the ability to comprehend, organize and coordinate complex projects. Unfortunately, I was blind to this metamorphosis. But my boss wasn't. I found out yesterday during my annual performance review how critical the situation had become. Luckily, my boss left the decision about my future up to me. I chose "long-term disability." >From the tone of this letter, you probably believe it was an easy decision. Believe me, it wasn't. Last night I had to face the gut-wrenching, hair-ripping, wailing, fist-through-the-walls truth. After 30 years of working, I was no longer considered productive. I couldn't cut it, mentally or physically. Luckily, I'm married to a woman who understands emotional crises and knows how to deal with them. We slept only about two hours last night. But today --- with both of us facing the grief --- she drove me 60 miles to my office, where I informed my boss of my decision. Then, my wife and I celebrated the start of my new life with lunch at one of Houston's finest cafeterias (see "flinging butter" incident earlier in letter). Now, I'm a PDP - Permanently Disabled Person. Or, as I perfer to consider myself, a PPTSHDN: Person Paid To Stay Home and Do Nothing. Actually, I plan to do a lot. Parkinson's activism. Household duties (my wife works). And write fiction. Novels. Short stories. Anything to exercise my mind and hands. Anything to keep my creative brain cells from croaking. Anything to prevent me from falling into that dark pit of depression. Here I go. Off into the world of the "paid to stay home." Wish me luck. Thanks for listening. Stan Houston (53/5) Cat Spring, Texas 78933 [log in to unmask]