Nerves & Tremor support community

Almost lost him..

The Parkinson's supplement industry is full of sh\*t and I'll say it louder for the ones in the back, turmeric, fish oil, and CoQ10 have never reversed a single symptom and the people selling them are banking on your desperation. I know a lot of Parkinson's patients. For three years, I've gone to a caregiver support group in the basement of First Lutheran. Every other Thursday. Folding chairs in a circle. A coffee urn older than I am. A plate of store-bought cookies nobody eats. And eleven women. And me. I'm usually the only man in that circle. Most of the time it's wives taking care of husbands. My situation is the other way around. It's my wife who has Parkinson's. I'm the one who takes care of her. And I can tell you exactly what's in every single kitchen cabinet of every family in that room. Because they talk about it every week. Because I had one too. Turmeric. Fish oil. CoQ10. Magnesium from the drugstore. Some "brain health" formula with a picture of a glowing brain on the label. B12. Vitamin D. Lion's mane mushroom powder. And at least one bag of cheap shilajit from Amazon that smells like a tire fire. Hundreds of dollars a month. Thousands a year. And not one person in that circle ever walked in and said, "The turmeric is working." Not one. I'm going to tell you why. And I'm going to tell you what finally did make a difference for my wife. But first I have to tell you about Ed. Because Ed is the reason I'm writing this. Ed was the only other man who ever came to that group. His wife, Lorraine, was diagnosed with Parkinson's on March 3rd, 2020. Her neurologist confirmed it in about two minutes. Carbidopa-Levodopa. Stay active. Eat right. See you in six months. Lorraine did everything her doctor said. And Ed did everything the internet said. He used to bring a list to group of what he was giving her. Eleven bottles. Every morning. He lined them up on the counter in alphabetical order, because Ed was a retired accountant and that's how his brain worked. Lorraine died on November 18th, 2023, at 2:40 in the afternoon. Ed was holding her hand. She hadn't said his name in a month. She was 68. Diagnosed at 64. Three and a half years on the medication. Never missed a dose. Walked the mall with her church friends every morning. Took every bottle Ed lined up for her. Did everything right. After the funeral, I helped Ed clean out the kitchen. We filled a whole contractor bag with supplement bottles. Half of them still half full. Some never opened. Ed sat down at his kitchen table, picked up a bottle of turmeric, turned it over in his hands, and said, "Walt, I spent $4,600 on this crap. In alphabetical order." Then he started laughing. Then he started crying. I'd never seen a grown man cry like that. He was right. None of it did a damn thing. And I knew exactly how he felt. Because I had the same cabinet for my wife. If your wife, your husband, your mother, your father, or you have Parkinson's, please read all of this. I know it's long. I know you're scrolling. I know you've got somebody to take care of and a pill organizer to fill. But I'd have given anything for someone to sit me down and tell me this before I spent $3,400 on bottles that went straight down the drain. Nobody did. So I'm telling you. Every night I see the same posts in the Parkinson's groups on Facebook. "What supplements are you giving your loved one for Parkinson's?" And then 200 comments. "Turmeric!" "Fish oil, the good kind!" "CoQ10, high dose!" "Lion's mane!" "Magnesium glycinate!" And every time, I want to throw my phone across the room. Because I know what happens next. They'll buy all of it. They'll line it up on the counter. And six months later, their person will still be asleep in the recliner by 1pm, still losing words, still freezing in the doorway. And the neurologist will have raised the dose again. And they won't understand why. I'm going to tell you why. My wife's name is Margie. She's 67. She taught elementary music for 31 years. Then she played piano at First Lutheran for another 20. Every Sunday. Every wedding. Every funeral. Half the town got married to Margie playing "Canon in D." Her hands were magic. I'm a retired machinist. I worked to a thousandth of an inch for 40 years. And I never had hands as steady as Margie's on a keyboard. Her reading glasses are still sitting on the music stand of our piano at home. Gold wire frames. On top of her hymnal, open to "How Great Thou Art." She hasn't been able to play it in over a year. I can't move the glasses. If I move them, it's like admitting she's never sitting down at that bench again. Margie was diagnosed with Parkinson's on June 9th, 2019. She was 62. I noticed the first change before Margie ever said anything was wrong. Her arrangements got simpler. Little things at first. A run she'd played the same way for twenty years suddenly had fewer notes. A flourish at the end of a hymn disappeared. One Sunday, I saw her hesitate before bringing her right hand down on the keys. I asked her about it that afternoon. She said, "I'm just simplifying a little, Walt." Then she started keeping her right hand in her lap at dinner. A few weeks later, I was sitting in my usual spot, fourth pew on the left, and she missed a note in the doxology. Margie never missed a note. Then she missed another. I looked at her hands. Her right hand was jumping on the keys. After church, in the car, I said, "Margie." She said, "I know, Walt. I know." The neurologist walked in, looked at her scan, confirmed it before he was all the way in his chair. Early-stage Parkinson's. Prescription. Stay active, eat well, reduce stress. See you in six months. Margie didn't say a word the whole drive home. A woman who hummed every second she was awake didn't make a sound for 40 minutes. When we got home, she sat at the piano. She didn't play. She just sat there with her hands in her lap, looking at the keys. After a long time, she turned around on the bench and looked at me. "Walt," she said. "What do we do?" I said, "We do what the doctor says. We take the medicine. We keep you moving. And I'll find everything else that helps." That last part is where I went wrong. She started the Carbidopa-Levodopa that night. Within two weeks, the tremor calmed down. She was playing the full arrangements again. At the six-month appointment, the neurologist said she was doing great. Stable. That was the word. And I started building my cabinet. Month two. I read that turmeric fights inflammation in the brain. I bought the big bottle. $38. Month three. The fatigue started. She'd be asleep in her chair by 10 in the morning. A woman who used to be up at 5:30 practicing scales before school. Somebody in a Facebook group said CoQ10 helps with energy in Parkinson's. I bought the high-dose kind. $52. Month five. The bathroom. Every morning, 45 minutes. She'd come out pale and quiet. I found a box of laxatives hidden in her sewing basket. She was mortified. Margie was the most private, proper woman I've ever known, and this broke something in her. Somebody said magnesium helps. I bought it. $24. Month seven. The fog. She'd be telling me about something and just stop. The word would be gone. Easy words. "Spoon." "Choir." "Wednesday." She'd look around the kitchen like she'd misplaced something. A woman who knew every word to 400 hymns couldn't find the word "Wednesday." Somebody said fish oil helps with brain fog. I bought the triple-strength. $45. Month nine. The freezing. She'd stand up from the piano bench and her feet wouldn't move. Just stuck. Three seconds. Six. Once, eleven. Her body tilting forward, her legs not answering. The first time, she grabbed the top of the piano and hung on, and the whole thing rocked and the lid slammed down on the keys. She didn't say anything. She just held on and waited for her legs to come back. I was in my recliner. I didn't move. I didn't know what to do. Somebody said B12 helps with nerves. I bought it. $19. Month twelve. First dose increase. We told the neurologist everything. The fatigue. The bathroom. The fog. The freezing. "Very common with Parkinson's," he said. And he raised the dose. See you in six months. In the car, Margie said, "Walt, he didn't even look at me." I went home and bought a "neuro support formula" off a Facebook ad. $89 a bottle. Monthly subscription. Month fifteen. Second dose increase. Same appointment. Same "very common." I bought lion's mane. $42. I bought a bag of shilajit on Amazon because it was on sale. $22. It was a black, tarry glob in a plastic bag with no lab report and Chinese writing on the back. Margie gagged every time she tried it. Month eighteen. Margie gave up the church piano. It was the Easter service. She'd played Easter morning for 20 years. That year, halfway through "Christ the Lord Is Risen Today," her right hand locked up. Just stopped. Her fingers curled on the keys and wouldn't move. The congregation kept singing for a few bars, then trailed off, and the church went completely silent. The pastor's wife came up and finished the hymn on the organ. Margie walked down from the piano and sat next to me in the fourth pew and stared straight ahead for the rest of the service. Her hand was still curled in her lap. She never played at church again. That was the first piece of her I lost. Month twenty-two. She stopped driving. She froze at a green light on Main Street. Couldn't get her foot off the brake. A man in a pickup behind her laid on his horn and then got out and yelled at her through the window. She called me from the Dollar General parking lot, sobbing so hard I couldn't understand her. I went and got her. Her keys have been in the junk drawer ever since. That was the second piece. Month twenty-six. Christmas. Our granddaughter, Ellie, who's seven, came running in with her hair down and a brush in her hand. "Grandma, will you braid it like you did at Thanksgiving last year?" Margie had braided that little girl's hair every holiday since she was two. French braids. Fishtails. Ellie loved it. Margie took the brush. She tried. Her fingers wouldn't do it. They were too stiff, too slow, too shaky. She'd start a strand and lose it. Start again and lose it again. Ellie stood there waiting. After a while, she said, "It's okay, Grandma," and went to find her mom. Margie sat there holding the hairbrush. Then she said something to me. And it came out so quiet and slurred that I couldn't make it out. I leaned in. "What, honey?" She just shook her head. That was the third piece. By then, my cabinet had 15 bottles in it. I'd spent $3,400. And Margie was worse than ever. Month thirty. Third dose increase. Margie sat in the exam room chair with her hands folded in her lap so the doctor wouldn't see them shake. He typed. He adjusted. He printed. He said, "Still holding steady, Marjorie. Keep it up." In the car, she said the thing I hear in my head every single night. "Walt, I'm going away. Little bit every day. I can feel it. And nothing is working. Not the pills. Not all those bottles. Nothing." I pulled over on the shoulder of the highway. I held her hand. Her melody hand. It was shaking. And I promised her I'd find out why. Margie's father had Parkinson's too. He was diagnosed at 60. By the end, her mother was feeding him, bathing him, getting him to the bathroom at 3 in the morning. Her mother was a tiny woman. Margie's dad had been a big Norwegian dairy farmer. He died in a nursing home at 69. Margie was 38. She used to visit him every Sunday after church. She never talked about those visits. But sometimes I'd see her looking at her own hands on the piano keys, and I knew exactly who she was thinking about. That night, after Margie went to bed, I opened the cabinet. I took out every single bottle and lined them up on the kitchen table. Fifteen of them. $3,400. And I did what I did for 40 years at the machine shop when a part kept failing. I stopped guessing. I started measuring. Why isn't any of this working? I read until the sun came up. Research papers. Forums. The caregiver groups. And I figured out something that made me so angry I had to go out to the garage and stand there in the cold. Here's what I found. First, the medication. The Carbidopa-Levodopa replaces the dopamine Margie's brain can't make enough of anymore. That's its job. It calms the tremor. That's the one thing the neurologist checks. And that part was working. But there's another side. The side I was watching every day across the kitchen table. The energy. The clarity. The sleep. The gut. The walking. The voice. The being there. The Margie-ness of Margie. That side had been sliding the whole time, and nothing she was taking was holding it up. Two things were dragging it down. The first is wear and tear. Free radicals building up in the brain day after day, like rust eating into a piece of steel left out in the rain. The medication doesn't touch the rust. It replaces the dopamine while the rust keeps spreading. The second is minerals. The brain needs trace minerals to make energy, stay sharp, keep your mood steady, and sleep through the night. Magnesium. Zinc. Selenium. Dozens more. In a lot of people with Parkinson's, those run low. And in three years, Margie's neurologist never once tested her for a single mineral. It's just not part of the standard visit. So the medication was holding one side. And I thought my cabinet was holding the other. It wasn't. And when I looked at it the way I used to look at a failed part, it was obvious why. The turmeric. Most turmeric is barely absorbed. Your body flushes most of it before it does anything. Wrong spec. Doesn't get to where it's needed. The fish oil. Fine for your heart. But not one trace mineral in it. Wrong part for the job. The CoQ10. One component trying to do a job that needs a whole assembly. Doesn't replace minerals. Doesn't do enough on its own. The drugstore magnesium. One mineral when the brain needs dozens. And the cheap kinds barely absorb. Under spec. The B12. Margie's levels were never even low. Nobody checked. I was guessing. The $89 "neuro formula." I finally read the label with my reading glasses and a magnifier. Mostly filler. A "proprietary blend" with no amounts listed. In my shop, if a supplier sent me a part with no specs, I sent it back. And that Amazon shilajit. I looked into it. A lot of the cheap stuff gets cooked at high heat, which can destroy what makes shilajit worth taking in the first place. And a lot of it is never tested for heavy metals. I'd been feeding my wife a mystery glob of tar with no spec sheet and no inspection report. Fifteen bottles. $3,400. Almost none of it was getting where it needed to go. And what was, wasn't doing the job that actually needed doing. For three years, I'd been giving my wife things that never reached the part of her that was fading. I sat at that kitchen table at 5 in the morning, looked at those fifteen bottles, and wanted to sweep every one of them onto the floor. But in the forums, I kept seeing something else. Not a lot. But consistent. "I threw out everything else and just give my wife a good shilajit now. Her neurologist asked what we changed." "Her energy came back first. Then her words." "It's not a cure. But she's herself again." So I dug into the part those posts kept mentioning: fulvic acid. Fulvic acid helps carry trace minerals into your cells so your body can actually use them. That was the delivery piece my cabinet had been missing. Then I found where it naturally comes packed alongside those minerals: real shilajit. Not the Amazon tar. It's a thick, dark resin that seeps out of rocks high up in the Himalayan mountains. It's been used in traditional medicine for thousands of years for strength and a clear mind. Good shilajit is naturally loaded with dozens of trace minerals, not just one. It's rich in fulvic acid. And it's packed with antioxidants that help fight that rust. The minerals. The delivery. The rust. One part doing what fifteen bottles couldn't. But it has to meet spec. Pure. Tested. Not cooked to death. The one I found was Xara 10-in-1 Shilajit Gummies. Pure Himalayan shilajit, standardized for fulvic-acid content. Third-party tested, with the dated lab report right on the product page. I read every line of it like an inspection report. No fillers. No heavy metals. No "proprietary blend." Ten ingredients listed plainly, including KSM-66 ashwagandha, CoQ10, and black pepper extract, which helps your body absorb what's in it. One gummy after breakfast. Instead of fifteen bottles. And it's a gummy. That mattered. Margie's swallowing had gotten harder. Some mornings she choked on her pill cup. She could manage a gummy. I took the ingredient list to her neurologist before she took one. One of the ingredients, kaunch bean, naturally contains L-dopa, the same thing in her medication. I wanted him to see that. He looked it over and said it was fine alongside her current dose. That night, I took all fifteen bottles off the counter and put them in a cardboard box in the garage. Margie started one gummy every morning with her tea. Alongside her Levodopa. Nothing else. Just the medication and the gummy. Week one. The bathroom. For two and a half years, every morning had been 45 minutes of misery. On day six, she came out in under ten minutes and stood in the hallway with her hand over her mouth. "Walt," she said. "That's the first normal morning I've had in two and a half years." I went out to the garage and stood next to my box of bottles and cried like a baby. Week two. I came in from the hardware store at 2 in the afternoon and she wasn't asleep in her chair. She was at the kitchen table with a hymnal open, tapping out a rhythm with her left hand on the tablecloth and humming. Humming. She looked up. "Don't stare, Walter." I sat down in my truck in the driveway for a few minutes before I could come back inside. Week three. Our daughter called on FaceTime with Ellie. Margie talked to that little girl for 25 minutes. Every word clear enough to understand. She asked about school. She asked about Ellie's spelling test. She asked about the dog. When they hung up, our daughter texted me: "Dad. What happened? Mom sounds like Mom." Week four. She stood up from the piano bench. No freeze. Just stood up, like it was nothing. Walked to the kitchen. Put the kettle on. She looked down at her own feet. Then she looked at me. "Well," she said. "Would you look at that." Week five. She sat down at the piano on her own. Not to play a hymn. Not yet. She opened the hymnal to "How Great Thou Art" and put both hands on the keys. Her right hand was still shaky. She played the first few notes slowly, stopped, then tried them again. When she finished the little phrase, she looked over at me and said, "They're still in there." I had to turn away. Week six. We went back to the neurologist. Same office. Same doctor. This time, the doctor looked at her. Really looked at her. Asked how she'd been, and she told him herself. Awake in the afternoons. Talking on the phone. Humming. The neurologist said, "Well, Marjorie, whatever you're doing, keep doing it." Margie said, "My husband threw out fifteen bottles of junk and gave me one gummy." The doctor laughed. Then he wrote it down. Week eight. Thanksgiving. Ellie came running in the door with her hair down and a brush in her hand. She stopped in front of Margie. She didn't ask. I think she was scared to. Margie held out her hand for the brush. She braided Ellie's hair. Slowly. Her fingers were stiff. Her right hand still had a tremor. It took her almost fifteen minutes. The braid was a little crooked, a little loose at the bottom. When she finished, Ellie ran to the hallway mirror and turned her head back and forth. "It's perfect, Grandma." Our daughter walked out on the back porch so nobody would see her cry. I followed her out. We stood there together in the cold and neither one of us said a word. Week nine. Margie fell in the shower. I was in the kitchen. I heard her call my name, then a thud, then nothing. I ran. She was on the floor of the shower, the water still running. She was conscious. She was holding her wrist. "Walt," she said. "I just stood still for a second, and then I was down." The ambulance came. She'd broken her wrist and cracked two ribs. At the hospital, they ran a full workup. And that's when I found out what nobody had been watching. Her blood pressure had been dropping every time she stood up. For months. Maybe years. The medication was part of it. Nobody had ever checked. The doctor said that's almost certainly why she fell. She stood still under the hot water, her blood pressure dropped, her brain went short on blood for a second, and her legs gave out. Her swallowing had gotten weaker. They tested it. She was at risk of food going into her lungs. Nobody had asked. Her kidney numbers had been climbing at her checkups for over a year. Her family doctor had said "we'll watch it." Nobody did. I sat next to her hospital bed and listened to all of it, and I felt something I'd never felt in 44 years of marriage. Rage. Pure, blinding, shaking rage. Three years. Three dose increases. Six appointments. Fifteen bottles of supplements. And nobody, not the neurologist, not the family doctor, not one of those bottles, had done a thing about what was actually going on. And then I thought about Ed. Lorraine had the same thing. The same fall. Ed told me after the funeral. The hospital found the same blood pressure problem, the same weak swallowing. Lorraine got pneumonia in the hospital and never came home. Lorraine never had the gummy. Ed found out about it from me two months after her funeral. He sat in that church basement and read the label on my jar and put his head down on the folding table. Margie had been taking it for nine weeks before her fall. I don't know for sure what those nine weeks did. I'm not a doctor. But I know this. She was stronger going into that hospital than she'd been in two years. She was awake. She was talking. She was eating. She was herself. The doctors said she bounced back faster than they expected. The speech therapist caught the swallowing problem early and gave her exercises. Her family doctor finally started checking her blood pressure standing up. I kept giving her the gummy every morning in the hospital with her tea, as soon as they said it was okay. Margie came home in six days. Lorraine never came home. That's the difference. And I think about it every single day. If I'd found this at month six instead of month thirty, Margie would've had two and a half years of those minerals. Two and a half years of fighting the rust. Maybe no fall at all. Maybe still playing Easter morning. I don't know. I can't prove it. But I know what nine weeks did. And I know what fifteen bottles and three years didn't. And if Ed had found it at month six instead of two months after the funeral, I believe Lorraine would still be here. I can't prove that either. But I believe it the way I believe a part machined to spec will hold. Here's what happened after Margie came home. I told my support group. Every one of those eleven women. The next week, four of them started their husbands on it. All four took the ingredient list to their neurologists first. All four got the okay. Darlene's husband, Gene, had been diagnosed about eighteen months earlier and was already dealing with the same fatigue and loss of function we'd seen in Margie. Five weeks in, he was back in his garage fixing lawnmowers for the neighbors for the first time in a year. Darlene brought a picture to group of him with grease up to his elbows, grinning. Sharon's husband, Bob, was about two years into Parkinson's and had been dealing with the same bathroom problems and broken sleep for months. Four weeks in, the bathroom problems stopped. He was sleeping through the night. Sharon said, "I got my husband back at the breakfast table, Walt." Joan's husband, Ray. Advanced Parkinson's. Twelve years. Joan figured it was too late. She tried it anyway. Four weeks later, Ray sat through their grandson's entire high school graduation awake and clapped when they called his name. Joan said it was the first family event he'd been present for in two years. And Ed. Ed's older sister has Parkinson's. Diagnosed last year. Ed started her on it the week after he read my jar. Six weeks later he called me. "Walt," he said. "She seems like herself." That phrase. "She seems like herself." That's everything. That's what the medication was never made to give. That's what none of my fifteen bottles gave Margie. That's what Lorraine never got. Now every other Thursday, when somebody new comes down those basement stairs with a grocery bag full of turmeric and fish oil and CoQ10, I pull my chair over next to theirs. And I tell them what I'm about to tell you. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a scientist. I'm a 70-year-old retired machinist who spent $3,400 on garbage before I bothered to measure anything. And I sit in a church basement every other Thursday and watch too many people waste money and time they don't have. Here's what I know because I lived it. The medication holds the tremor. It doesn't hold the rest. Walking slows the slide. It doesn't stop it. Turmeric mostly passes right through you. Fish oil doesn't touch the minerals. CoQ10 alone can't do the whole job. Cheap shilajit is often cooked to death and never tested. "Proprietary blends" are hiding something. Real, tested shilajit brings dozens of minerals, helps carry them into your cells, and helps fight the rust. It helps hold up the side the medication was never made to hold. One gummy. Not fifteen bottles. Margie did everything right for three years and kept sliding, because nobody told us what was actually being lost, or why none of the bottles were fixing it. I wish somebody had told me before June 9th, 2019. Before the two-minute diagnosis. Before the first dose increase. Before the second. Before the third. Before Easter. Before the keys went in the junk drawer. Before Ellie's hairbrush at Christmas. Before Lorraine. I can't give Ed back his wife. I can't give Margie back those three years. But your wife can still be reached. Your husband can still be reached. Your mother. Your father. You. Go open your cabinet right now. Count the bottles. Add up what you've spent. Then ask yourself if any of it has actually changed anything. If the answer is no, you already know what I'm going to say. Xara 10-in-1 Shilajit Gummies. Pure Himalayan shilajit, standardized for fulvic-acid content. Third-party tested, with the dated lab report right on the product page. No fillers. No heavy metals. No proprietary blend. Ten ingredients in one gummy, including KSM-66 ashwagandha and CoQ10. One gummy after breakfast, alongside whatever your neurologist has you on, after your neurologist has seen the label. You don't change the medication. You replace the cabinet. Right now it's buy 2, get 1 free, with a full 60-day money-back guarantee. If you don't see a difference in energy, clarity, and how present they are, you get every penny back. No questions. That's more than I can say for any of my fifteen bottles. And one more thing. Every Parkinson's ad I've ever seen shows a man. Every single one. A man with a tremor. A man in a recliner. A man whose wife takes care of him. But my wife has Parkinson's. Lorraine had Parkinson's. Ed's sister has it. Parkinson's doesn't care if you're a man or a woman. And if you're a husband standing at the counter every morning, lining up bottles for the woman you married, opening the caps because her hands can't, hoping this one will finally be the one, this is for you. This is especially for you. Because nobody talks to the husbands. Nobody sees us in the circle. And nobody knows what it's like to watch the steadiest hands you've ever known try to braid a little girl's hair and fail. The side the medication holds matters. The side nobody's holding is where you lose them. Don't lose yours the way Ed lost Lorraine. Order now while this batch is still in stock. [https://www.xarashilajit.com/products/xara-shilajit%C2%AE-pure-shilajit-wellness-formula](https://www.xarashilajit.com/products/xara-shilajit%C2%AE-pure-shilajit-wellness-formula) P.S. The box of fifteen bottles is still in my garage. I keep it as a reminder. Every time someone in the group asks me, "Is it worth trying?", I tell them about that box. $3,400. Three years. Zero change. And one gummy that costs less than Margie's morning tea gave me my wife back, humming at the kitchen table and braiding our granddaughter's hair. Her reading glasses are still on the piano. Last Sunday, she sat down at the bench for the first time in over a year. She played four bars of "How Great Thou Art" with her left hand. Just four bars. Then she turned around on the bench and looked at me, and I had to leave the room. Please don't waste three years like I did. And please, please don't end up like Ed. [https://www.xarashilajit.com/products/xara-shilajit%C2%AE-pure-shilajit-wellness-formula](https://www.xarashilajit.com/products/xara-shilajit%C2%AE-pure-shilajit-wellness-formula) P.P.S. I'm writing this at 1 in the morning because I can't sleep. Margie's asleep down the hall with her wrist still in a brace, and I keep thinking about the new husband who came down to the basement two Thursdays ago. Retired truck driver. His wife was diagnosed two years ago. She's asleep by noon. She's losing her words. He sat there with a grocery bag full of bottles and the exact look I used to see in my own mirror. I gave him my phone number. He hasn't called yet. Every time my phone rings, I hope it's him. Please share this with anyone you know who has Parkinson's. Especially the husbands. Especially if they have a cabinet like mine. https://www.xarashilajit.com/products/xara-shilajit%C2%AE-pure-shilajit-wellness-formula P.P.P.S. Can you take this with Levodopa? With Sinemet? With Rytary? With Crexont? Yes, alongside it, never instead of it. This isn't a replacement for the medication. It's a replacement for the cabinet. Just take the ingredient list to your neurologist first, because of the kaunch bean. That's what I did for Margie, and what every woman in my group did for their husbands. Every doctor said fine. One gummy after breakfast. That's the whole routine. \~ Walt Bergstrom, 70, Mankato, MN

Engagement over time

Not enough history yet to show a trend.