These words came one letter at a time

If brilliant Chinese concert pianist Lang Lang had my hands he’d be out of work.

And the injustice of it all would be blindingly evident.

When I played baseball as a youngster we would label any guy who muffed a grounder, “Stone Hands.” That’s me now.

Put simply, my hands have about as much dexterity as lobster claws.

But that hasn’t always been the case.

I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease 11 years ago, at the age of 61. For the first 60 years of my life, my hands were a gift, and I didn’t even realize it. As a writer, I was able to bang out 90 words a minute on a keyboard.

So what’s the big deal?

Thoughts seemed to travel instantaneously from my brain, through my fingers, and onto my hard drive. I used to tell people that I thought with my fingertips. That’s not actually true, but it’s close.

Had I been forced during my career to write longhand with a pen or pencil on a legal pad, well, I couldn’t have done it. Sorry. That process is too lethargic.

Thinking, keyboarding and writing should be a single action. Without them being synchronous, writing, for me, would have been impossible.

As a writer, I’ve never been a plodder. I write — or wrote — on the fly. Freewheeling. Were I tasked today to compose a lengthy essay on a keyboard, that assignment would prove as difficult as attempting to play Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5.

My bigger problem, of course, is that I don’t play the piano.

Writing used to be an innate skill for me, but now because of my hands it is a struggle. I hunt and peck, one letter at a time, with a trembling finger hovering above the keyboard. The process is so slow that I sometimes lose my train of thought before I’m finished typing a sentence. To employ a football metaphor, I out-kick my coverage.

Really, it’s no big deal. I’m retired, and I don’t depend on writing for my livelihood. I write for fun.

But, were I Lang Lang or Segovia or Michelangelo, I’d be worse than distraught. I’d be devastated.

Parkinson’s is a progressive neurological disorder with no known cure. It causes nerve cells to die or become impaired, and patients exhibit such symptoms as tremors or shaking, slowness of movement, rigidity or stiffness, loss of facial mobility and balance difficulties. Other signs include a shuffling gait, cognitive problems and muffled speech.

My first symptom a dozen years ago was a persistent twitch of the index finger of my left hand. At most, it seemed a curiosity and of little significance. I ignored it and waited for it to go away. It didn’t.

The twitch ultimately proved serious. It in fact ended up controlling my life and presaging a raft of future symptoms.

Two years after diagnosis, I retired at age 63. I’d intended to go another two or three years but could see my skills slipping. My ego kicked in.

Actually, I knew more about the disease before my diagnosis than I’m letting on. My dad had Parkinson’s.

Truly, I never worried about getting the disease myself. It’s not supposed to be hereditary, so what were the odds? I didn’t consider myself indestructible, but why burden myself with needless anxiety?

Then, from out of the blue, my finger began exhibiting a mind of its own, and I became suspicious.

Dad died six months after my diagnosis, 10 years after his. And now, I’ve had it 11. Over the years, I’ve lost a number of good friends with the disease.

The severity of my hand tremors at any given moment depends largely upon my medication cycle. The tremors go from barely perceptible when I’m “on” to hands unable to wield a fork, pour coffee or button a shirt when I’m “off.”

In the meantime, I appreciate Lang Lang’s giftedness, and I wish him continued success and good health. His hands are a treasure!

We’re wise not to take our abilities for granted.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.