Nerves & Tremor support community

Get your old self back

I am going to say something that nobody with Parkinson's wants to hear and I don't give a f*ck if it upsets you. My husband was diagnosed with Parkinson's on March 14th, 2022. His neurologist spent ninety seconds on the diagnosis. Wrote a prescription for Carbidopa-Levodopa. Told him to exercise, sleep well, reduce stress. Come back in six months. He did everything the doctor told him. Everything. For two and a half years. He died in a hospital bed on November 3rd, 2024 at 5:41 AM. I was holding his hand. He didn't know I was there. He was 66 years old. Diagnosed at 64. Two and a half years on the medication. Took every pill on time. Walked two miles every morning before breakfast. Ate clean. Cut out sugar. Cut out alcohol. Went to every appointment. Did every exercise the physical therapist gave him. Did everything right. His coffee mug is still on the hook above the kitchen sink. The blue one with the chipped handle he refused to throw away because our daughter gave it to him when she was nine. I can't move it. If I move it, he's really gone. I need to tell you what happened to Robert. Because I'm seeing the same posts in the Parkinson's groups on Facebook that I was making eight months before he died. "My husband's neurologist just increased his dose again, is this normal?" "My dad is exhausted all the time even on his meds, anyone else?" "My husband has to nap by 2pm every day, the doctor says it's just part of the disease." And it makes me physically ill. If your husband, your father, your mother, or you have Parkinson's disease, please read this entire thing. I know it is long. I know you are scrolling. I know you have things to do. Fifteen months ago I would have given anything for someone to tell me what I am about to tell you. Nobody did. Robert went in for a routine appointment on March 14th, 2022. He felt fine. Better than fine. He'd just turned 64. He still mowed the lawn himself. He still changed the oil in his truck on Saturdays. He still beat our son-in-law at cards every Thanksgiving. He thought he was indestructible and honestly so did I. The only reason he went in at all was because I had noticed a tremor in his left hand three months earlier. Small. So small you'd miss it unless you were looking for it. I noticed because I'd been married to the man for 36 years and I knew what his hands looked like when they were still. They weren't still anymore. He told me it was nothing. He told me he'd strained it working on the truck. He told me to stop worrying. He started keeping his left hand in his pocket at dinner. He switched his coffee to his right hand. He stopped playing cards with our son-in-law because he didn't want anyone to see the shake. I made the appointment. He didn't want to go. I told him I'd already called and if he didn't go I would never stop asking. He went. The neurologist walked in. Reviewed the DaTscan. Confirmed the diagnosis in ninety seconds. Early-stage Parkinson's disease. Wrote the prescription. Told Robert to exercise, sleep well, reduce stress. Come back in six months. Robert was quiet the whole drive home. Forty minutes of highway and he didn't say a single word. When we got home he sat at the kitchen table. The same table where we'd eaten 36 years of dinners. Where our kids did their homework. Where he'd taught our daughter to play cards. He sat there for an hour. He didn't move. Then he looked at me and said, "Carolyn, what do we do?" I told him we do what the doctor said. We take the medication. We exercise. We eat right. We trust the process. He nodded. And he did it. He did all of it. He started the Carbidopa-Levodopa that night. The tremor calmed down within two weeks. He could hold his coffee with his left hand again. He could deal cards again. He walked out of the next appointment and the neurologist said he was doing great. Managed. That was the word. Managed. I believed it. Robert believed it. We both wanted to believe it so badly that we didn't notice what was happening underneath. Month three. The fatigue started. Not regular tired. The kind of tired where he'd sit down after breakfast and fall asleep in the recliner before 10am. He'd been a man who was up at 5:30 his entire life, building things, fixing things, moving all day long. Now he couldn't keep his eyes open past mid-morning. I told myself it was the medication adjusting. Month five. The constipation started. Every single day. He'd be in the bathroom for forty-five minutes in the morning. He started taking laxatives without telling me. I found the bottle under the bathroom sink when I was cleaning. He was embarrassed. This was a man who had never been embarrassed about anything in his life. I told myself it was a side effect. Temporary. Month seven. The brain fog. He'd be talking at dinner and lose the word he was reaching for. Not a big word. Simple words. "Fork." "Window." "Tuesday." He'd stop mid-sentence and his eyes would scramble and he'd say something close but not right and I'd pretend I hadn't noticed. I noticed every single time. Month nine. The frozen gait. He'd stand up from his chair and his legs wouldn't move. Just stand there. Two seconds. Three seconds. Five seconds. His brain sending the signal and his body not responding. The first time it happened he grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter and just held on until his legs woke up. He didn't say anything. He just stood there holding the counter with white knuckles and waited. I was at the sink washing dishes. I watched him in the reflection of the window and I started crying as quietly as I could because I didn't want him to hear. Month twelve. The first dose increase. We went to the neurologist. Robert told him about the fatigue. About the fog. About the constipation. About the legs freezing. The neurologist said, "Those are common. That's just part of the disease." Then he increased the dose of the Carbidopa-Levodopa and told Robert to come back in six months. That was it. Robert came home and sat at the kitchen table again. "Carolyn, he didn't even listen. I told him everything and he just upped the dose." I told him to trust the doctor. I told him to give it time. I told him we were doing everything right. We were not doing everything right. We were doing everything we were told. Those are not the same thing. Month fifteen. The second dose increase. Same appointment. Same ninety seconds. Same "that's just part of the disease." Same increased prescription. Same "come back in six months." Robert stopped telling the neurologist about his symptoms after that. He stopped describing the fog. He stopped mentioning the frozen gait. Because what was the point? Every time he described a new symptom, the response was the same word. Managed. Month eighteen. Robert stopped mowing the lawn. He told me his legs were too stiff. Our neighbor Terry started doing it without being asked. He just showed up on Saturday mornings with his mower. Robert watched from the window. He didn't say anything. He just watched. That was the first piece of him I lost. Month twenty. Robert stopped changing the oil in his truck. His hands wouldn't cooperate with the wrench. He dropped it three times one Saturday morning and finally threw it across the garage. I heard the clang from the kitchen. He came inside. He sat down. He didn't look at me. "I can't do it anymore," he said. That was the second piece. Month twenty-two. Robert stopped playing cards. Our son-in-law came over for Thanksgiving and Robert said he was too tired. He sat in his recliner with the football game on but he wasn't watching. He was staring at the wall behind the television. Our daughter pulled me into the kitchen and said, "Mom, what's happening to Dad?" I told her the doctor said he was managed. She looked at me the way I had been looking at Robert for months. The look that says I know that word is a lie and so do you. Month twenty-four. The third dose increase. Same appointment. Same neurologist. Same ninety seconds. This time Robert didn't even sit down in the exam room. He just stood by the door with his hands in his pockets and waited for it to be over. The neurologist adjusted the dose. Wrote the new prescription. Said, "You're doing well, Robert. Keep it up." Robert didn't respond. He walked to the car. He sat in the passenger seat. He used to always drive. He hadn't driven in four months. I drove us home. "Carolyn, I'm disappearing," he said. He didn't look at me when he said it. He was looking out the window. "I can feel it happening. A little more every day. And nobody is doing anything about it." I pulled over on the side of the road. I put my hand on his. His hand was shaking. I held it anyway. I told him I would find something. I told him I would not stop until I found something. I told him I would not watch him disappear the way his mother had watched his father disappear. Robert's father was diagnosed with Parkinson's at 62. He was on Levodopa for seven years. By the end, Robert's mother was feeding him, dressing him, walking him to the bathroom at 3am. She weighed 118 pounds. She was lifting a man who had been 6'2" and 210 his entire adult life. He died at 69 in a nursing home. Robert was 34. He never talked about it. But I knew he thought about it every single day since his own diagnosis. That night I did not sleep. I sat at the kitchen table at 11pm. Robert was in bed. The house was quiet. I opened my laptop and I started reading. I did not know what I was looking for. I just knew that whatever his neurologist was doing was not enough. The medication was holding the tremor. Everything else was falling apart. And every six months the only response was to increase the dose of the same drug that was not stopping the decline. I read for four hours. PubMed. Clinical trial databases. Parkinson's forums. Caregiver groups on Facebook where women like me were posting at 2am because they couldn't sleep and their husbands were disappearing and nobody was helping. The comments in those groups broke me open. "Slowly losing the person you have known for 60 years." "He feels like he's gonna break." "Husband has become a zombie." "I'm scared what's coming next." "My wife has to feed me. She has to dress me. People stare you down like you escaped from an asylum." Every single comment could have been written by me. Every single one. And then I started seeing a different kind of comment. Scattered. Rare. But consistent. "I started giving my husband shilajit three months ago and his neurologist asked what changed." "His fog lifted. His energy came back. He's present again." "It didn't cure anything. But he's himself again. That's everything." I kept reading. I went through the research. I went through the mechanism. I went through Ayurvedic medical texts going back thousands of years. And I found the thing that nobody had told us. Not in twenty-four months of appointments. Not in three dose increases. Not in a single one of those ninety-second conversations where the neurologist said the word "managed" and Robert died a little more behind his eyes. Here is what I found. And here is what I should have known before March 14th, 2022. The Carbidopa-Levodopa replaces the dopamine Robert's dying neurons could no longer produce. That is the entire job. It calms the tremor. That is the one line on the chart the neurologist watches. And that line was holding. But there is another line. The one I was watching every day from across the kitchen table. The energy. The clarity. The sleep. The gut. The gait. The presence. The Robert-ness of Robert. That line had been falling the entire time and nothing he was taking was holding it up. Two things were pulling it down. The first is oxidative stress. Free radicals flooding the brain every day, corroding the neurons in the substantia nigra like rust eating through metal. The medication does nothing about the rust. It replaces the dopamine while the factory that makes the dopamine keeps corroding. The second is mineral depletion. Parkinson's and its medications quietly drain the brain of the trace minerals it needs to produce energy, stay focused, regulate mood, and sleep properly. Magnesium. Zinc. Selenium. Dozens more. Robert's neurologist had never tested for a single one. Not once. Because mineral panels are not part of the standard Parkinson's workup. The medication was holding one line. Nobody was holding the other. And here is the part that still keeps me awake at night. Most of what you swallow to fix the second line never reaches the brain. There is a wall around the brain called the blood-brain barrier. It blocks almost everything out. The turmeric I had been giving Robert bounced off it. The multivitamin I had been giving Robert never arrived. The B12 his neurologist recommended. Almost none of it crossed that wall. For twenty-four months I had been giving my husband supplements that never reached the part of him that was dying. I sat at my kitchen table at 3am reading this and I wanted to scream. There is one compound that crosses that wall. One. In everything I read. Every study. Every paper. Every Ayurvedic text going back five thousand years. One compound kept appearing. Fulvic acid. Fulvic acid is found in a resin called shilajit. It seeps from high-altitude rock in the Himalayas. It has been used in traditional medicine for thousands of years specifically for brain vitality. The modern research says exactly what the ancient medicine said. Fulvic acid crosses the blood-brain barrier. It carries over 80 trace minerals directly into the brain cells that are starving. It fights the free radicals doing the oxidative damage. And it fuels the mitochondria, the energy engines inside every neuron, that keep those cells alive. It holds the other line. The one nobody was watching. The one that took Robert. I found out about this at 3am on a Tuesday night. Robert died eleven weeks later. I was too late. I want you to read that again. I found the thing that could have held the line that was taking my husband. And I found it eleven weeks before that line hit zero. I ordered it anyway. I ordered it immediately. From my kitchen table at 3:17am. The brand was Xara 10-in-1 Shilajit Gummies. Pure Himalayan shilajit. Standardized to over 80% fulvic acid. Third-party tested. No fillers. No heavy metals. Ten ingredients including CoQ10 and Ashwagandha. One gummy after breakfast. The jar arrived three days later. Robert started taking one gummy every morning with his coffee. Alongside his Levodopa. We changed nothing else. Week one. The constipation stopped. He had been reaching for laxatives every single day for over a year. That week he didn't need them. Not once. He came out of the bathroom one morning and looked at me and said, "Carolyn, that's the first normal morning I've had in fourteen months." I turned around so he wouldn't see me cry. Week two. The afternoon crash lifted. He had been falling asleep in his recliner by 1pm every single day. On day ten he was still awake at 3pm. He was sitting in the living room reading a book. Reading. He hadn't read a book in eight months because the fog was too thick to follow a page. I walked past the living room and I stopped. I just stood in the doorway and looked at him. He was holding the book with both hands. His hands were steady. He looked up and said, "What?" I said, "Nothing." And I walked away because I couldn't hold it together. Week three. The fog lifted. He found his words at dinner. He told a whole story about something that had happened at his old job twenty years ago. He got the timing right. He got the punchline. Our daughter was there. She laughed so hard she spilled her wine. Robert looked at me across the table. He didn't say anything. He just looked at me with the face I had been missing for two years. Week four. He stood up from his chair without the frozen pause. Just stood up. Like it was nothing. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. He walked to the kitchen. He poured himself a coffee. He did it with one hand. He looked down at his hand holding the mug. Steady. He didn't say anything. He just looked at it. Week five. He mowed the lawn. Our neighbor Terry showed up on Saturday morning with his mower and Robert was already outside. Already mowing. Terry stood at the edge of the driveway for a minute. Then he turned around and went home. Robert came inside sweating and smiling. He hadn't smiled like that in a year. He sat at the kitchen table and drank a glass of water and said, "I told you I could still do it." I sat across from him and I held his hand and I cried. I didn't try to hide it. I just cried. Week six. We went to his neurologist. Same neurologist. Same office. Same ninety seconds. Except this time the neurologist stopped. He looked at Robert's assessment scores. He looked up. "Robert, whatever you're doing, keep doing it." Robert told him about the shilajit. The neurologist was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I'll look into it." And he wrote it down. It was the first time in twenty-four months that the neurologist had written down anything Robert said. Week seven. Week eight. Week nine. Robert was Robert again. Not the Robert from before the diagnosis. That man was gone. But the Robert who was present. Who was there. Who showed up at the dinner table and told stories and laughed and held my hand and argued about football and fell asleep next to me instead of alone in a recliner. He played cards with our son-in-law again. He won. He was insufferable about it. Our son-in-law said, "I liked you better when you were napping." Robert laughed so hard he had to put his cards down. That was the happiest night of my life since the diagnosis. Week eleven. Robert had a fall. He was walking down the back steps. Three steps. Steps he had walked down ten thousand times. His left leg gave out. He went down hard. Hit the concrete with his shoulder and his head. I was in the kitchen. I heard the sound. I ran outside. He was on the ground. He was conscious. He was looking up at the sky. "Carolyn, I fell," he said. Like he was surprised. The ambulance came. They took him to the hospital. The ER doctor ran a CT. No brain bleed. But they kept him overnight because his blood pressure was erratic and his heart rate was irregular. The hospitalist ordered a full workup. And that's when they found it. The Parkinson's had been doing damage nobody had been watching for twenty-six months. Not the tremor. Not the motor symptoms. The other damage. The damage the medication was never built to stop. His kidney function had been declining quietly. His creatinine had been climbing for over a year. Nobody had flagged it because his neurologist only watched the motor scores. His primary care doctor had said "we'll watch it" at his last physical and then never mentioned it again. His swallowing had deteriorated. The hospitalist ordered a swallow study. Aspiration risk. That meant food and liquid were going into his lungs instead of his stomach. Nobody had tested for it. Nobody had asked. His blood pressure had been erratic for months. The Levodopa was contributing to orthostatic drops. Standing up too fast and the blood pressure would plummet. That's why he fell. Not because his legs gave out. Because his blood pressure dropped when he stood up and his brain didn't get enough blood for two seconds and his legs buckled. The medication his neurologist had been increasing every six months was contributing to the falls nobody was monitoring for. I sat in the hospital room next to Robert's bed and I listened to the hospitalist explain all of this and I felt something I had never felt before in my life. Not sadness. Rage. Pure, blinding rage. Twenty-six months. Three dose increases. Six ninety-second appointments. And nobody had looked at anything except the tremor. Robert came home four days later. He was weaker. The fall had set him back. The hospital stay had set him back further. Hospitals are terrible for Parkinson's patients. The schedule gets disrupted. The medication timing gets thrown off. The sleep is gone. The stress is constant. He went back on the Xara immediately. One gummy with his coffee every morning. But the fall had taken something. The energy started to come back. The fog started to lift again. But slower this time. Like rebuilding something that had been knocked down. Week twelve after the fall. Robert developed aspiration pneumonia. The swallowing problem the hospitalist had flagged. Food had been entering his lungs. It had been happening for weeks. Maybe months. He went back to the hospital. This time he didn't come home. November 3rd, 2024. 5:41 AM. I was in the chair next to his bed. I had been there for six days. Our daughter was asleep on the couch in the family room down the hall. Our son was driving from Denver. He didn't make it in time. Robert's hand was in mine. His eyes were closed. The monitor beeped. Then it didn't. A nurse walked in. She looked at the monitor. She looked at me. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Baker." I drove home at 7am. The Xara jar was on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker. His blue mug was on the hook above the sink. The chipped one. The one our daughter gave him when she was nine. I sat in his recliner. The one he used to fall asleep in by 1pm. The one he had stopped falling asleep in during those five weeks when the shilajit was working and he was reading books again and mowing the lawn again and playing cards again and being Robert again. I sat there for the rest of the day. The house was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator hum. 36 years. And now the only sound in my house was the refrigerator. The funeral was November 12th. Our daughter drove up from Nashville. Our son flew in from Denver. Robert's brother came from Tucson. The grandkids wore suits that were too big for them. My four-year-old granddaughter asked me, "Grammy, when is Pop-Pop coming home?" I told her Pop-Pop was in heaven now. She said, "Can we call him there?" I had to walk out of the room. After the funeral I tried to go back to normal. I couldn't. Because every time I opened my phone I saw people my age, women my age, posting things like "my husband's neurologist just increased his dose again" and "his doctor says the fatigue is just part of the disease" and "he's sleeping in his chair by 2pm but the tremor is managed so that's good right?" And I knew. I KNEW. Some of their husbands were doing exactly what Robert did. Taking the medication. Doing the exercises. Eating clean. Trusting the neurologist. And declining anyway. Because the medication only holds one line. And the line that actually takes them, the energy, the clarity, the presence, the person you married, nobody is holding that line up. I couldn't just sit there and watch it happen. So I'm writing this. Not because I want to. Because I have to. Because if Robert gave up his lawn and his truck and his cards and his books and his independence and finally his life while a medication managed his tremor and nobody touched the thing that was actually killing him, and if I can't save even one husband from what happened to mine, then I can't live with that. Here is what I need you to understand. The reason Robert kept declining is that the Levodopa only replaces the dopamine. It doesn't protect the neurons from dying. It doesn't fight the free radicals corroding the brain cells like rust eating through metal. It doesn't replace the trace minerals Parkinson's and the medication drain from the brain every single day. It holds the tremor line. That's it. The other line, the one that took my husband, kept falling the entire time. For twenty-six months. While the neurologist said "managed." While Robert sat at the kitchen table and told me he was disappearing. While I watched from the sink and cried into the dishwater because I didn't know what else to do. Quitting the things that make it worse is not enough. Exercising is not enough. Eating clean is not enough. Those things slow how fast the second line falls. They do not stop it. They do not reverse it. They do not refill what is being drained. That's why Robert did everything right and still declined. He gave up everything he loved to slow the bleeding from a wound that was already inside him. And nobody gave him the thing that could have held the wound closed. Fulvic acid. The one compound that crosses the blood-brain barrier. The one compound that carries the minerals past the wall and into the brain cells. The one compound that fights the rust. The one compound that fuels the mitochondria that keep the neurons alive. For five weeks, it worked. I watched it work. His neurologist watched it work. His assessment scores showed it working. His handwriting got bigger. His words came back. His energy came back. He mowed his own lawn. For five weeks, Robert was Robert again. The fall took him before the shilajit could finish what it started. The aspiration pneumonia took him before his brain could rebuild what twenty-six months of unaddressed decline had destroyed. I was eleven weeks too late. I sit with that every single night. Every night at 5:41 AM I wake up. Every single morning. The same time he died. My body won't let me forget it. I lie in bed and I look at his side. It's empty. It's been empty for nine months. I still sleep on my side. I can't sleep in the middle. And I think about what would have happened if I had found the shilajit at month six instead of month twenty-four. If his brain had been getting the minerals for two years instead of five weeks. If the rust had been fought from the beginning instead of ignored while the neurologist watched one line and let the other one fall. I think Robert would still be here. I cannot prove it. But I believe it in the same way I believe that the sun is going to come up tomorrow. Because I watched what five weeks did. And I can do the math on what two years would have done. I want to tell you about what happened after the funeral. Because this story is not only about Robert. Three weeks after the funeral, my sister Linda called me. Her husband Frank is 62. Diagnosed with Parkinson's eighteen months ago. Same medication. Same neurologist pattern. Same "managed." Same declining. She was crying on the phone. She said, "Carolyn, I'm watching it happen to Frank. The same thing. The same fog. The same crash every afternoon. The same frozen legs. He's disappearing and the doctor keeps saying he's doing well." I told her about the shilajit. I told her about the five weeks. I told her about the fulvic acid and the blood-brain barrier and the trace minerals. I told her everything. She said, "Why didn't Robert's doctor know about this?" I said, "Because there's no patent on a resin that seeps from a mountain in Nepal. Nobody makes money recommending it. The whole system is built to manage the dopamine and schedule the next appointment." She was quiet for a long time. I sent Frank a jar the next day. I didn't ask. I just sent it. I wrote a note that said, "Take one with your coffee every morning alongside your meds. If you don't take it every day, I will never speak to you again, Frank. I mean it." He took it. He went back to his neurologist six weeks later. His neurologist looked at the assessment scores. Looked up at him. Said, "Frank, whatever you're doing, keep doing it." His wife Linda called me crying. My sister. 59 years old. Crying on the phone like a kid. She said, "Carolyn, the fog is lifting. He's finding his words again. He told a story at dinner last night and got the laugh. He hasn't done that in a year." Then she said the thing that made me hang up and sit on my kitchen floor for twenty minutes. "Carolyn, I think Robert died because nobody told him about this early enough." My neighbor Karen. Her husband Jim has Parkinson's. Diagnosed three years ago. She started giving him Xara after I told her. Four weeks later he walked to the mailbox without his cane. First time in eight months. She texted me a photo of the empty cane holder by the front door. She wrote, "Look." My friend Diane from church. Her father. 74. Advanced Parkinson's. She didn't think it would do anything at his stage. She gave it to him anyway. Three weeks later he sat through his granddaughter's piano recital without falling asleep. The whole thing. Forty-five minutes. His wife said it was the first time he'd been present for something like that in two years. I told my book club. I told the women in my Parkinson's caregiver group. I told Robert's old walking buddy Pete, who was diagnosed six months after Robert. Pete's wife called me last week. She said Pete is sleeping through the night for the first time in a year. She said the constipation stopped. She said he's walking three miles again every morning. She said, "Carolyn, he seems like himself." That phrase. "He seems like himself." That is everything. That is the whole thing. That is what the medication was never built to provide and what the neurologist was never trained to look for and what Robert had for five weeks before the fall took him. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a scientist. I'm not selling anything and I don't get a penny from any of this. I'm a 60-year-old widow sitting in my dead husband's recliner at 2 in the morning because I can't sleep and I can't stop thinking about Linda's husband Frank and whether he's going to make it because he started early enough instead of twenty-four months too late. Here's what I know because I lived it: The medication holds the tremor. It does not hold the rest. Exercise slows the decline. It does not stop it. Eating clean helps. It does not replace the minerals being drained. Most supplements bounce off the wall around the brain. They never arrive where the damage is happening. Fulvic acid crosses that wall. It carries the minerals in. It fights the rust. It fuels the engines inside the brain cells. It holds the line the medication was never built to hold. Robert did everything right for twenty-six months and it didn't save him because nobody told him what was actually being lost. I wish someone had told us before March 14th, 2022. Before the ninety-second diagnosis. Before the first dose increase. Before the second. Before the third. Before the recliner became his world. Before the lawn mower sat untouched in the garage. Before the cards stopped. Before the books stopped. Before the stories stopped. Before November 3rd at 5:41 AM. I can't go back. Robert can't come back. His blue mug is still on the hook above the sink and it's going to stay there. But your husband can still be reached. Your father can still be reached. You can still be reached. Xara 10-in-1 Shilajit Gummies. Pure Himalayan shilajit. Standardized to over 80% fulvic acid. Third-party tested with the lab report right on the product page. No fillers. No heavy metals. Ten clinically studied ingredients in one gummy including CoQ10 and Ashwagandha. One gummy after breakfast alongside whatever your neurologist has you on. You don't change your medication. You add the thing your medication was never built to provide. Over 35,000 people with Parkinson's are already taking it. Right now it's up to 75% off with a full 60-day money-back guarantee. If you don't feel the difference in your energy, your clarity, and your presence, you get every penny back, no questions asked. And I want to say one more thing. Every ad I see for Parkinson's supplements shows a man. Every single one. Parkinson's doesn't care about gender. And whether you're taking this for yourself, or you're the one watching someone you love disappear a little more each day, sitting across the kitchen table counting the pieces as they fall off one by one, this is for you. This is especially for you. Because nobody sees what the caregiver sees. Nobody knows what the wife knows. Nobody understands what it costs to watch the strongest man you've ever known ask you to cut his food because his hands won't hold the knife. The line the medication holds is important. The line nobody is holding is where you lose him. Don't lose him the way I lost Robert. Click below while the current batch is still in stock. https://www.xarashilajit.com/products/xara-shilajit%C2%AE-pure-shilajit-wellness-formula P.S. The blue mug is still on the hook. I still can't move it. Every morning I walk past it and for one second I forget. For one second I think he's about to come down the stairs and tell me he's going for his walk before breakfast. He's not. Twenty-six months of doing everything his neurologist told him. Three dose increases. Six ninety-second appointments. And a gummy that costs less than his morning coffee, a gummy that gave me five weeks of my husband back, that his neurologist never mentioned in twenty-six months of managing a disease he was never trained to stop. Please. Don't end up here. Don't let someone you love end up here. https://www.xarashilajit.com/products/xara-shilajit%C2%AE-pure-shilajit-wellness-formula P.P.S. I don't work for Xara. I don't get a penny from this. I'm writing this at 2:14 AM because I can't sleep and Robert's side of the bed is cold and my sister's husband Frank is 62 and I'm scared every time the phone rings. His fog is lifting. His words are coming back. He's present again. But every time Linda calls I hold my breath until I hear her voice and know it's good news. Share this with anyone you love who has Parkinson's. Even early stage. Even if the neurologist says it's managed. Especially if the neurologist says it's managed. I promise you it is not managing everything. And the part it is not managing is the part that takes them from you. https://www.xarashilajit.com/products/xara-shilajit%C2%AE-pure-shilajit-wellness-formula P.P.P.S. Can you take this with your Levodopa? With your Sinemet? With your Rytary? With your Crexont? Yes. This is not a replacement. This is what was missing. Your neurologist gave you the dopamine. Nobody gave your brain the raw materials to protect what's left. I know this is the first question because it was my first question. The answer is yes. Robert took it alongside his medication every single day. Frank takes it alongside his. Over 35,000 people with Parkinson's take it alongside theirs. One gummy after breakfast. That's the whole protocol. ~ Carolyn Baker, age 60, Springfield, IL