At dinner recently, a new friend held his glass across the table for me to refill with wine. To him, pouring that glass of wine was a simple courtesy. For me, a person with Parkinson's disease, pouring red wine into a glass above a white tablecloth was a disaster waiting to happen.

It wasn't always that way. For years I poured wine like a pro, emulating my friend Friedhelm, whose family I had visited in Germany in 1973. Friedhelm would grasp the bottle in his right hand, stretch his arm across the table, and tilt the bottle expertly so the wine flowed smoothly into the glass, never spilling a drop.

Then, in 2003, I noticed a tremor in my right hand, and my confidence in pouring wine wavered. The tremor got worse, and other movements became problematic. My family doctor referred me to a neurologist, who delivered a devastating diagnosis: Parkinson's disease.

I was stunned. Parkinson's happened to other people, not to me. I feared that my life was over. On the way home from the neurologist's office, I pulled into a parking lot, switched off the ignition, and cried.

After my initial shock, I sought a second opinion. The doctors confirmed the diagnosis but reassured me that how I responded to the disorder could affect the course of the disease. With their encouragement, I began making adjustments. I started taking medication. I resolved to stay mentally and physically active. I continued to work and remained involved in my community. Together with my doctors and family and friends, I developed a positive attitude that helped me enormously.

But my disease did not go away. Though its progress slowed, my symptoms gradually worsened. I had to increase my medication dosage, and its effectiveness was no longer predictable. My hand tremor became such a problem that I resorted to using a signature stamp at times.

Ten years into my diagnosis, my doctors started talking about deep brain stimulation (DBS). With my symptoms worsening, surgery seemed like a promising option. After a series of tests, the procedure was scheduled for the following year. My medical team was great before, during, and after surgery, and my symptoms improved. My hand tremor disappeared, and I put away the signature stamp.

But now, here I was: three years post-DBS, facing a challenge I was not prepared to meet. Any spilled drop of red wine would stain the white tablecloth. I would be embarrassed if the wine spilled, but I would be equally embarrassed to refuse my friend's request.

All I had been through since 2003 flashed through my mind in the second it took me to make a decision. I grasped the bottle with my right hand in Friedhelm's signature fashion, stretched my arm across the table, and tilted the bottle so the wine flowed smoothly into the glass.

Not a drop was spilled.