Online Searches, Bad Advice, and Algorithmic Chaos
When I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, I did what any calm, semi-well-adjusted adult would do.
I Googled it.
Within ten minutes, the internet informed me that I had:
Three unrelated neurological conditions;
Double BeriBeri, with a multi-factor case of scurvy;
An acute ice-cream deficiency;
And, somehow, a rare Victorian illness, which I assume requires fainting couches and aggressive blood-letting.
At no point did the internet suggest, “Yo, pal, maybe take a breath.”
Online Search Algorithms Have No Chill
Once you Google Parkinson’s, the algorithm decides this is now your entire personality.
Your online ads immediately pivot to:
“Doctors DON’T want you to know this”;
“This supplement saved my uncle’s neighbor’s cousin’s dog”;
“Rewire your brain in 7 days (results may vary, brain not included).”
Every third pop-up ad now promises a major breakthrough.
Backed by confidence alone. Verified by scrolling.
I watched a video that began with, “I’m not a doctor, but…” and somehow still ended with, “Stop your medication immediately.”
Bold advice.
Strong confidence.
Zero credentials.
Online searches and AI platforms can be helpful learning tools. They can even be comforting at times. But they can’t replace firsthand care, context, or balance.
Most People Mean Well. They Really Do.
When people find out you have Parkinson’s, they lean in with empathy.
They lower their voice.
They nod seriously.
They share the sacred phrase:
“If you ever need anything, just let me know.”
This is sincere.
This is kind.
This is also, in most cases, a ceremonial sentence.
It loosely translates to:
I care, but I hope to dear God you never actually ask me for anything.
Not because people are bad.
Because human nature is awkward, and empathy often arrives without an instruction manual.
This is also how you end up fielding unsolicited medical advice from complete strangers whose primary qualification is having watched every episode of House and who now believe they could out-diagnose Hugh Laurie, minus the American accent and the cane.
Suggestions include:
“Have you tried this new probiotic? It’s made from Himalayan Mountain Lynx urine, harvested fresh and flown directly to a lab where turmeric, beetroot, and ginseng are added.”
“My neighbor cured his tremor by spraying Windex on the shaky parts.”
“You don’t look like you have Parkinson’s.”
Thank you. I’ll notify my basal ganglia that it’s failing aesthetically.
From the mental checklist of well-meaning, socially approved sympathy phrases, people often select:
“Listen to your body.”
Yeah. I’m listening.
Unfortunately, my body is currently running an unstable beta version of what was once a dependable platform. Signals are inconsistent; the Wi-Fi is unreliable; and it now requires two-factor authentication before I attempt anything remotely ambitious, like buttoning a shirt.
Sometimes the message comes through.
Sometimes it buffers.
Sometimes it logs me out entirely and suggests I try again later, dude.— End Part 1 —
