I am on the blog tour for Brisbane. Here is an edited extract from the book.

I’m at an appointment with Professor Wentz. The professor is a leading specialist in neurology. He asks me to stretch both arms out in front of me and looks at them closely. He asks me to clench and unclench my fists. He bends my arms at the elbow, especially the right. Standing behind me, he grabs my shoulders and pulls me toward him. He asks me to sit on the examination table, remove my shoes, and move my feet. He takes a chair and sits across from me. He smiles. He says, as if continuing a long-running conversation:
“Yes, Mr. Yanovsky, you have Parkinson’s disease. Don’t be upset. People live with it.” Professor Wentz’s office and Wentz himself flip to the negative and back. No more guitars in my ears whatsoever. A drum solo.
“It’s hard for me not to be upset.” I switch suddenly to a whisper. “I’m a musician.” The smile on the professor’s face is replaced by a momentary sadness.
“Yes, yes, I know. A famous musician. But I’ll tell you this. There are illnesses even worse when, forgive me, music is the least of your troubles. Not only that, you have to have happiness even in unhappiness. You have classic . . . mmm . . . symmetrical Parkinson’s, and we know what to expect of that.” I make a movement with my left hand, and Wentz nods. “Yes, your left is substantially better than your right for now. Over the next three years, it may catch up, if I can put it that way. Generally speaking, you have to realize that this is not a disease of the arms or, you know, the feet, it’s a disease of the brain.”
The smile returns to the professor’s face. In an odd way, it doesn’t offend but rather instils hope.
“You say it’s a disease of the brain. . . .” I don’t know how to express my thought without offending the doctor. “But there is such a thing as magnetic resonance imaging. For you it . . I mean to say, can you establish a diagnosis without it?” Wentz nods good-naturedly. He’s used to people doubting his diagnosis in the beginning. They suggest to him, to Wentz, how to conduct his examination. It’s a normal reaction.
“I understand what you’re getting at. An MRI – yes, it’s what we will certainly do. But imaging . . . mmm . . . can only clarify certain details. It will scarcely affect the diagnosis.” Katya is waiting for me at the office door. I gesture to her: let’s go. And we head for the exit at the end of the hall. Running down the stairs, I turn for a second: “Parkinson’s.”
Katya groans muffledly, slows down, and stops. Hanging over the railings, she looks at me stopped a flight below. I’m reflected in her eyes. My face is a bright blurry oval in the staircase’s quasi-gloom. There’s nothing left in it of the face on hundreds of posters. Just pain and distress. Outside, she throws herself on my chest. People look at us. “What, am I dying? Dying? What’s this scene?” Her hands link around my neck. If it’s going to be absolutely terrible, she’s not going to let me depart for the next world so easily. Not that that seems to be what this is about. Wentz did say there are diseases much worse.
“You know,” I whisper in her ear, “let’s go somewhere for a drink.”
We find an appealing little restaurant next to the Marienplatz and sit on the terrace. We order ice cream. Wine for Katya, brandy for me.
“We’ll get through all of it together.” Katya puts her hand on top of mine. “All of it.”

Disclaimer – Thank you to the publishers for gifting me a copy of the book.