‘I have been sustained by the support of my wife... no man was luckier in his spouse’

I did not want to face up to that harsh reality. In a bout of wishful thinking I told myself I was only suffering from a temporary recurrence of an old back problem, for which I had undergone surgery in the 1980s.

But last September, my self-delusion was shattered. With my health having deteriorated further, I finally went to see a back specialist.

Having watched me limp into his surgery, his verdict was swift. “There is no point in my examining your back. I am pretty certain you have Parkinson’s. It’s not what you want to hear, I know,” he told me in a kindly but authoritative manner.

He then referred me to a highly regarded neurologist, who confirmed the diagnosis after extensive tests and brain scans. He explained that Parkinson’s is caused by the death of cells in the brain that make dopamine, the chemical that regulates the body’s functions.

There is at present no cure for the disease, but many patients find that drugs can alleviate the worst of symptoms by stimulating the production of dopamine.

Under his wise guidance I embarked on a robust drugs regime, which now involves the consumption of nine pills a day.

At first, this medication made me extremely drowsy, so that all I yearned for was sleep, but that side-effect has worn off and now I am beginning to see some improvement. My tremors have reduced and my legs are less sore.

I should not complain too vociferously about my plight. After all, Parkinson’s is neither a death sentence, nor is it particularly rare. In Britain, 145,000 people have the condition – about one in 350 adults – and many of them continue to live fulfilling lives. Indeed, I am lucky in that the static nature of my work as a writer means I should be able to keep earning my living for many further years, as long as my brain holds out. Moreover, with advances in medical research, a cure could be found in a decade. Yet I cannot pretend that this condition has not cast a long shadow over my life. As my neurologist warns me, the drugs will eventually stop being effective. I have to face the fact that the future could be bleak.

Nor is it in my nature, as an Ulsterman, to indulge in positive thinking.

But in the voyage through the dark tunnel of recent months, I have been sustained by the wonderful compassion and support of my wife Elizabeth.

This September, we will have been married 25 years and no man was ever luckier in his spouse.

BEAUTIFUL, vivacious and funny, she supplies all the positivity that I lack. Her husband now resembles an old man, as immobile as a stone on Easter Island, yet she has shown me only patience and tenderness.

While I have elevated the term “couch potato” into the dominant theme of my existence, she displays only warm-hearted affection, never exasperation, even when she undertakes tasks that no woman should be expected to do for a 57-year old husband, like putting on his socks.

She cooks fabulous meals for me, joins in my physical exercises, places a hot water bottle on my aching knee, ensures I have