A good death

What people don’t know about Parkinson’s

A poem by my fellow Movers and shakers podcast host, Gillian Lacey-Solymar

March 18, 2025
Photo courtesy of Gillian Lacey-Solymar
Photo courtesy of Gillian Lacey-Solymar

This is Prospect’s rolling coverage of the assisted dying debate. This page will be updated with the latest from our correspondent, Mark Mardell. Read the rest of our coverage here


There are three things I need to tell you about Parkinson’s. They aren’t exactly closely guarded secrets, but not many people know them.

Firstly, a lot of us seem to wake at three in the morning and can’t go back to sleep.

Secondly—and maybe this is the drugs rather than the condition—but it can give you bursts of creativity. So it’s not unusual for me, if I do get a full night’s sleep, to wake up to marvellous poetry from my friend and fellow Movers and Shakers podcast host, Gillian Lacey-Solymar. Her poems are usually upbeat, often light, often amusing.

The third thing? Well, Parkinson’s can make you brood on the end and on death.

Last Saturday, I woke to another wonderful poem from Gillian. It wasn’t light or amusing. But I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

Coming to conclusions 

What if? (1)

What if there is no cure

What if it eludes our science

Perplexes our scientists

Escapes our knowledge

What then?

Back to where we started once again

 

What if? (2)

What if the non-existent deity

Waved His non-existent baton

And I were healed.

Would I then believe in God. 

Not necessarily. Maybe.

How odd…

 

What if? (3)

What if the end is grim?

Really grim

And instead 

I could have been done in

That’s a failure not a win.

 

What if (4)

What if I opt for assisted dying

And after all the end 

Would not have been so bad.

I won’t be mad nor glad nor sad.

Instead.

I’ll be dead

 

The decision

The upshot should be clear

Nonetheless the fear

The fear of the unknown.

Means we think a little further

In the warmth of our family

The comfort of our home

 

The process

We hesitate

We vacillate

We cannot but procrastinate

And suddenly it’s all too late.

 

The reality

Time trickled away

Til it’s too late to play

Too late to have our say

Too weak to get on a plane

Mind gone—can’t sign my name

Or tell you who’s PM.

Isn’t it…? Nah… gone again.

 

Watch the clock

Note the time

Don’t miss the ultimate

Punchline

The irrefutable, non-commutable

Deadline.

Yes, deadline.