When I was a kid, I used to love making model airplanes. My mother wouldn't let me build them on the kitchen table, so I assembled them on the front porch. I'd spread out a section of the Boston Globe, put the blueprint on it, trace it, and cut out the parts of the fuselage, wings, and tail using a razor blade that my father had taped so I wouldn't cut my fingers.
Occasionally my hand would tremble, and I'd slide off the line I was tracing. I never gave it much thought. I'd just get back on track and keep cutting.
It wasn't until 30 years later that anyone else noticed a tremor. By then, I was a father of two and an executive of a tech company. I had also run two half-marathons. During a routine physical my doctor asked, “How long has your head been shaking?” When I expressed surprise, he said, “Never mind.”
A few years later, I was hosting customers in a conference room and went to pour myself a cup of coffee from an urn on the sideboard. I placed the cup under the spout and flipped the spout down. My hand shook and a few drops landed on my tie, which gave me pause.
I started to connect the dots. My father was in the late stages of Parkinson's disease, and my hand quivered. Maybe this was something to be concerned about. I went back to the doctor who had asked about my shaking head, and he referred me to a neurologist. I told the neurologist about my father, and about my concerns. He read my medical records and studied me for a few minutes. He asked me to stretch my arms in front of me and hold out my hands. Then he asked me to walk to the door and back.
“I don't think you have Parkinson's,” he said. “I believe you have what is called a familial or essential tremor.” I was relieved to learn that I didn't have Parkinson's disease, but I knew nothing about familial tremor. The doctor explained that the neurologic disorder causes trembling in the hands and head and is believed to be inherited. Had I ever noticed anyone in my family whose hands and head shook? Maybe my Aunt Bess, I thought, but I wasn't sure.
I asked if there were medications that could reduce the tremor. He mentioned some but said they might make me tired or slow me down. I needed a lot of energy for my job, and I was still running half-marathons, so we agreed medication wasn't right for me at that time. As I turned to leave, he reassured me that I had a mild case and could learn to live with it.
The neurologist was right about both the diagnosis and my ability to live with it. Over the years, the tremor has become more noticeable, but it doesn't hinder my everyday life.
Some foods fall off a fork, so I use a soup spoon. And unless my soup is thick, I drink it—and no one seems to care. If I fill a glass to the brim, the liquid slops over, so I fill it halfway. My signature has changed, so I emphasize the capital S and capital H and scrawl the rest. I can change the batteries in my hearing aids but I can't thread a needle, and I clasp my trembling right hand with my left when I shave. [Studies have demonstrated that people with essential tremor have more hearing loss than the general population.]
I've adapted well—perhaps because I have a relatively mild case, perhaps because I'm resilient. I suspect it's a combination.
But I'm not sure I could still make a model airplane—and I haven't tried.
Stanley Harris lives in West Orange, NJ. After years in the technology industry, he is now the author of several young-adult books about a teenager who travels back in time to experience significant events in American history. He’s also written a memoir about being a Boston Red Sox fan.
