POSITIVELY PARKINSON'S

It's in the Past

2012-01-29T01:25:00.000-08:00

War stories become history. Anecdotes become legend. A mirage becomes a memory. Remembrances and recollections…well…float between fact and fiction. Two entirely different events forced me out of my present orientation and into the past.

The antique microphone icon on the iPhone in front of me blinked, signaling as it recorded my words, bumbling and inelegant as they were. I wasn't exactly sure why I was being interviewed in the empty classroom, but the young, obviously intelligent woman was asking questions about my college years, the early 1970s. Supposedly, my answers, and the results of a prior photo shoot, were to be used in a 50th anniversary alumni publication. It was embarrassing how significant events (to me at least) from over 40 years ago came spilling out. Some of the stories I had retold many times before, while others leapt to mind as if from brown-edged photographs just then discovered, tucked in an old album. We were carefree teenagers, or diligent young adults, depending on the day. We had left our various home towns for the small college, longing for life outside our parents’ pretended sovereignty. My now dirty gray hair was then dirty blond, and much longer. My camouflage green coat was a Vietnam War castoff that I wore without knowing whether I was protesting something or simply posing as someone who might. Immaturity, agility and good balance led me to the attention-seeking activity of sitting on the handlebars of my bicycle, looking over my shoulder and pedaling backwards to class. I momentarily wondered if, despite my Parkinson's tremor, stiffness and loss of full equilibrium, I could still pull it off. Thankfully, there was no bicycle around to illustrate my continued immaturity. The interview led my thoughts through a labyrinth, a time tunnel I had rarely visited, to an age of growing awareness of how vibrant an adventure life could be.

Friday night's venue was entirely different; a swish golf and country club hosted a reunion of a law firm where I used to work in the early 1980s. It was an eclectic group of people then who, despite having maintained their individualistic traits, seemed to have mellowed since. Hugs, mostly sincere, replaced handshakes in many cases, something that would never have occurred when we shared the offices and workstations 30 years ago. It was apparent that those who had attended were honestly pleased to see each other. Stories, some amplified with age, were told with enthusiasm, especially if the main character was not in attendance and storyteller had visited the bar frequently. There was warmth and laughter in the room, a far different feeling than the typically serious, muted coolness that had so often permeated the corridors of the old firm. Not surprisingly, it was the staff that had come up with the idea and planned the get together, for it was them, not the lawyers, who were the heart and soul of the place. I was happy that they had so successfully pulled it off, for there was an inexplicable value to catching up with old colleagues. Despite having to explain the PD reason for my shaking arm and leg to a few, I felt comfortable in who I was and am. There seemed little left to prove, no good reason to try and impress.

Recently, a rather self-evident thought occurred to me: the older I get the more past I have to remember. It has been a long journey, a path of unpredictable twists and turns which, when I look over my shoulder, makes me smile. It has been what it was meant to be. And I am thankful for the memories, shaded and scattered though they may be. They are like the patches sewn together by my grandmother to form a quilt. It may not be a work of art, but it is warm, unique and meaningful (at least to me).

Six Benefits of Six Years of Parkinson's Disease

2012-01-22T00:23:00.000-08:00

"It's my anniversary. Six years ago today I was diagnosed", I found myself saying to a friend as we discussed our common ailment, Parkinson's disease. He reacted with a mixed question/exclamation, "You keep track!?" What he really meant to ask was, "Why do you?" That unasked question and its potential answers hung in my mind for hours like cigar smoke in a room with no ventilation. To me the anniversary was unavoidable. January 19, 2006, was a day in which my life changed irreversibly, irreparably and irrepressibly. A memorial had been built that day to which I return annually. Difficult though this pilgrimage has been, I try to recall what it felt like to hear news that began to permanently alter my priorities. The truth is I was numb, and the anesthetic effect of the neurologist's words took years to wear off. It may not have yet.

However, that day was not, as it may have felt, the beginning of the end. Yes, it began the slow strangulation of some dreams and the suffocation of naïve assumptions I had made about living. But that needed to happen if I was to maintain an attitude of adventure in the days that lay ahead. As surely as birth of spring follows the death of winter it remains true, "to everything there is a season". The old must make way for the new. Living began to school me, teaching me lessons I had never anticipated learning. It was like that treasure hunt game we played as kids where our parents hid a series of clues, each one leading to another clue until finally we reached the "treasure". And so it has proven true; the best teachers are the toughest.

Like a poor student who has difficulty paying attention, I often fail to learn my lessons the first time through. But here are a few of the benefits that six years of Parkinson's disease has tried to bestow on me.

1. Impatience with myself and others is really a form of arrogance, a failure to acknowledge that there may be a good reason why someone else is going slower than me. I know how fumbling with keys or coins, dressing, walking and eating more slowly, all seem to aggravate those in the "fast lane", attracting a scowl or stare that effectively communicates, "Get out of my way!"

2. Discomfort with the disabled, deceased or simply different is born out of fear. Uniformity has no value when it comes to people. Each one of us is unique. The truth is that we can only be accepted by others by accepting the diversity of others.

3. True friendship flourishes in the mutual sharing of weakness, vulnerability and inadequacy. Hiding the symptoms of our diseases only drives others to do likewise, leading to loneliness. We need each other. Each relationship requires risk to test its strength for the storms that lay ahead.

4. Pain is neither part of a sadistic plan, nor is it intended to punish. Pain has a purpose. It may be darkness without which the light cannot be seen, a reminder of what is important. Has anything worthwhile been gained except through hardship and sacrifice? The greater the goal, the greater the cost.

5. Life is short. We all seem to act as if that final day will not come. There is no need to sprint. Haste is just waste. And there is no reason to dawdle. Pace yourself for the race. You will need the energy at the end.

6. Invest time, the ultimate nonrenewable resource, wisely. Make each day count. Search out your calling and pursue it passionately and relentlessly. We each have something to contribute.

Whatever your anniversary, be it one of pain or pleasure, recognize it. Use it to build hope and purpose.

It's Complicated

2012-01-15T21:10:00.000-08:00

"It's really very simple." The words tumbled from his mouth in a braided mixture of conviction and doubt. Like the confluence of two streams into one river, the result was both unclear and deceptive. It was obvious that the man in his 70s desperately wanted to believe his bold assertion. Perhaps it was the fear that my legal fees would increase if the matter was portrayed as complex. Maybe it was his inability to come to grips with the convoluted history and intricate detail of his story. Whatever it was, I knew instinctively that he would not be happy with my advice. Inevitably, his emphatic opening statement would either be cause for his embarrassment or he would leave the boardroom frustrated at having wasted his time explaining his “straight-forward” problem.

It was a potential for family conflict that had been bubbling underground like hot lava, ready to crack the apparently well-ordered surface at the least provocation, leaving behind ugly scars that would never completely heal. The inevitable eruption would splash red-hot anger into hairline cracks in relationships, splitting open the hidden stress fractures that had been created over many years.

The man's wife had died, after a long illness, leaving him confused and companionless. After a short period of mourning he found himself searching in quiet desperation to fill the void he felt. Within a year of his bereavement, an attractive widow sauntered into his life, restoring his sense of romance and reason. He and his second wife were soon married in a simple ceremony attended by their respective children and grandchildren, all of whom seemed uneasy in their celebration of the couple’s happiness. Difficult, unasked and unanswered questions began to form. It was complicated.

That wedding was several years ago. Now, reality having set in, this gentleman wanted me to draft a will that would equitably distribute his sizable net worth after his death. After enduring two hours of sometimes painful discussion, my client left, dejected, with a list of questions much longer than the one he had arrived with. The "simple" questions: how would he distribute his wealth without alienating his new spouse or children; how could he avoid leaving a legacy of litigation?

There seems to be an unwritten rule when it comes to people's perception of simplicity. The more simple we wanted something to be, the more complex it is in fact. In this way, birth and death may appear to be rather simple brackets for the in-between living. If they are simple, which is debatable, both events often create unimaginable complexity. For within the parentheses called life lay many complex challenges and choices. Despite appearances, the older one gets the more complex one's life can become as many of our lifelong assumptions are dashed on the rocks of reality.

In my case, I held onto a delusion of uncompromised capacity to enjoy life as I age, only to have it disrupted by disease and the diverse menu of disabilities it drags along. Only lately have I begun to recognize my oversimplification of my diagnosis: Parkinson's disease. Perhaps, due to the slow onset of the disease in my case, the potential peril has been, until lately, like lava creeping only modestly threateningly down the slopes of a somewhat distant volcano. I have successfully pushed self-assessment and its haunting cross-examination to the periphery of my day-to-day life. But maybe, like my client, my doomed and deluded attempt to remain in control of life cannot survive. I must engage with the complexity of it all.

Life is complicated. People are complex. We must understand what we can. Then marvel at the mysteries that remain.

“Abandon the urge to simplify everything,

to look for formulas and easy answers,

and to begin to think multidimensionally,

to glory in the mystery and paradoxes of life,

not to be dismayed by the multitude of causes and consequences

that are inherent in each experience -- to appreciate the fact that life is complex.”

M. Scott Peck

The "Best Before" Date Myth

2012-01-07T21:35:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while I read the obituaries in our fridge (icebox). I don't mean curling up with newspaper atop the crisper drawer in the refrigerator. I mean determining the "shelf life" of our chilled food supply. Few things frustrate me more than throwing out containers of flavored yogurt that have never been opened, thinly sliced corned beef sealed in the apparently too distant past by the Safeway butcher, or a carton of orange juice rushed to our home from Florida only to languish too long in the coolness of the fridge door. In each case, the prominently displayed date on these consumable items suggests certain death if even a small sip or nibble is taken. It is as if the development of germ warfare has begun in our kitchen and must be destroyed. Sometimes, when I open the fridge door, I am sure that I hear the ticking of a 100 clocks marking off the seconds until botulism has conquered our entire food supply. Most times I smell a conspiracy by retailers. Who sets these dates? What sort of safety factor is built-in? Who monitors these "best before" bandits? Doesn't this date stamping practice simply appeal to our laziness, our quest for convenience, our penchant for eliminating the need to discern?

What did we do before, the invention of the now ubiquitous "best before" date stamp mindlessly applied to almost all food and drug products. And what does it mean, "best before"? Whatever it was originally intended to mean, it now virtually demands that consumers pitch the product the day following, failing which dire consequences will quickly ensue. No more need to sniff carefully for smells of deterioration. Observation skills to detect small patches of mold are no longer necessary. Just read the label and toss. Fear trumps forensics and economics.

This is been a difficult practice for me to adopt. When I was very young, I would be sent to the basement room where jars of homemade jam and "canned" fruit (the "canning" process was a misnomer as thick jars were used to seal fruit in their syrup) lined the shelves in annually replenished supply. There was a date on these glass containers, but it was the day, month and year that the fruit had been pulled from scalding water and vacuum sealed. I was instructed to choose the oldest jar to bring upstairs. Aside from ensuring that each jar when opened let out a small ‘pop’, there was only a limited inspection undertaken. In fact, if a bit of mold lined the wax seal of some strawberry jam, it was simply scooped off without a second thought. In like manner, if cheese wore a little fuzzy green coat when pulled from the cooler it was merely skinned and used without any consideration of impending death or disease.

Today, most "civilized" parts of our world have seemingly stamped "best before" dates on the foreheads of all older members of society. We all seem to have been conditioned to believe that at a certain time in life each person has outlived their "best before" date. That person has become outdated, a candidate for the discard heap, having nothing useful to contribute any longer. As I approach my 60th anniversary of entry into this world, I sometimes wonder whether I will soon reach (or maybe already have reached) my "best before" date. Certainly, having a degenerative, chronic disease, Parkinson's, has the potential to leave me feeling somewhat moldy and beyond my prime. But is the societal "best before" message true?

An instructive experiment was undertaken on the expiry dates used in 100 medications. It was determined that 90% were effective and safe for as long as 15 years after the specified date. In fact, "best before", read literally, simply and most unhelpfully means what it says, that a particular product is likely to be best if used before a particular date. It does not read "bad after". In fact, it is, at best, a qualitative guidance. With the exception of fine wines, and serious whiskey, which could usefully have a "best after" date, what products are not "best before" the earliest possible date?

Maybe it's time to return to making our own decisions about when something, or someone, is no longer useful. Maybe looking beyond the surface will allow us to find a lot of good left to enjoy and a lot to contribute. Maybe there is no real "best before" date.

The Jigsaw Puzzle and Three Lessons Learned about Parkinson's Disease

2011-12-31T14:38:00.000-08:00

It appeared on the family room coffee table a few days before Christmas. The mystery was born as a jumble of a thousand uniquely-shaped pieces of pressed cardboard. Sure, there was a picture on the box of what it was supposed to look like when completed, but there was no guarantee of the outcome. To make something out of the seeming chaos of colors, shapes and sizes required faith, curiosity and a commitment to complete the task at hand. Regardless of the varying degrees of interest, virtually everyone who entered our family room participated in locating necessary pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. Slowly, after hours of painstaking piece by piece assembly, the perimeter straight edges were all located and put in place. This defined the dimensions and potential for the remaining pieces, the frame within which, assuming all went well, the picture would take shape. Critical though this fundamental step may have been, it was hardly much of a conquest. But that didn't stop those of us present at the time from expressing our common feeling of accomplishment.

From then on, the puzzle became a common compulsion, a mission that recruited one member or another of our extended Christmas time family. From time to time, whether casually or in earnest, friends and family would lean over or kneel beside the table and stare intently at the small colored cardboard cutouts. Even PJ, my three-year-old grandson, got into the act. "I can help with the puzzle, Grandpa", he insisted, picking up pieces at random and attempting to press them indiscriminately into place. Easily bored with the concentration required by the adult distraction he found his own puzzle of some 25 pieces. "See Grandpa, mine is finished", he announced, as if to chide us for our own retarded progress. Of course, we were not driving matchbox trucks and cars over his puzzle as he did over ours, scattering well-placed clumps of emerging images onto the floor and who knows where else.

More than a week after it was begun, the puzzle was finished. Or at least as finished as the remaining pieces would permit. There were three noticeable holes in the completed picture, which we deduced was due to three pieces having gone AWOL with a three-year-old boy. Searching unsuccessfully in every conceivable hiding place, I wondered out loud when, if ever, those missing pieces would reappear in someone's shoe, trapped in the trunk of some hidden toy car, or stuffed into Mr. Potato Head. Regardless, we had gone as far as we could, having spent countless hours striving to place those little puzzle pieces in their perfect places to form the picture on the box lid.

Some might characterize the task of putting together a jigsaw puzzle as senseless behavior; a mundane and meaningless, yet addictive, activity leading to an anticlimactic achievement, after which it would be returned to its former condition and placed in some darkened closet, most likely never to be seen again. A look at the history of jigsaw puzzles suggests otherwise.

The jigsaw puzzle was invented in 1767 by John Spilsbury. It was a wooden map of the world with each country cut out as a separate piece, thereby designed by the English mapmaker for teaching geography to children. The puzzles continue to be used for teaching children and did not catch on with adults as a means of entertainment until more than 100 years later. Over the past week I have begun to see that jigsaws have stayed true to their original purpose and can still teach lessons about life, and about Parkinson's disease. Some things to ponder as we end 2011.

1. We all start life as a mysterious genetic jumble of potential. Humanly speaking, the final image constructed upon the chromosome limitations we inherit is never known ahead of time. We are a work in progress. In effect, our puzzle is being assembled without a clear picture on the box lid. We must simply do the best with what we have been given, as and when discovered, be it defective dopamine-producing cells or otherwise.

2. The best way to put together a puzzle is by having the perspective and participation of numerous people, all contributing their concerted, or even casual, efforts towards development of the final product. Some of them may never see much more than the early outline of what we are to become, while others are only present to see the triumphant placement of the final piece. Just as our lives are best constructed by the contributions of many, so too is our perspective on living with Parkinson's disease. Despite the fact that progress may be slow at times, we can be encouraged by the fact that the placement of one "piece" can be enough to allow many others to fall in place.

3. We are all exposed along life's way to mishaps and mischief, both of which can result in us lacking or losing some apparently needed pieces. As a result, the picture may never be perfectly complete. But the missing pieces, like a diagnosis of PD, are part of our story. Will it be a bitter one or a better one? Will it tell of resilience or resignation? Those choices are ours.

"More often than not the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that is your life will come together in a manner beyond your currently ability to imagine…. The right pieces will come together at the right time. It’ll all work out." Stephen Cox, "The Jigsaw Puzzle of Life".

ONE PIECE AT A TIME

The Importance of Cribbage at Christmas

2011-12-24T12:39:00.000-08:00

"15-2, 15-4, 15-6 and a pair is 8", he announced as he moved his red peg eight holes ahead on the oval track of the cribbage board occupying the table between us. My father-in-law and I play Cribbage most every time we are together. It has become a tradition, as it was when my father was alive. Even before that, I spent many hours learning the niceties of the game from my grandfather, who often tried to "cheat", with a smile and twinkle in his eye, just to see if I was watching him score his points on the board. In my family, board and card games were the staple of every family get-together, especially Christmas. With the popularity of video, computer, iPhone and other electronic distractions, table games have seemingly lost their luster. But, for me, Cribbage still remains the constant; a comforting custom of Christmas.

For those of you who may be uninformed, Cribbage, or "Crib" as it has been shortened to, is a simple card game, requiring some thought, strategy and attention in order to play well, but leaving plenty of opportunity for discussion, joking, poking fun and other male expressions of friendship. The inventor of the game, Sir John Suckling, was a cavalier English poet of the early 1600s. He was appropriately known for his carefree spirit and wit, despite a self-inflicted end to his own life at the age of 33.

My father-in-law, Louis, wears his 82 years extraordinarily well. But 50 years as a stonemason, holding large stones in one hand while shaping them by blows from a heavy stone hammer held in the other in order to place them perfectly in a wall, have taken their toll. While his stonework was often a work of art, he has suffered, as most artists do, from the consequence of long hours perfecting and pursuing his craft. The pain from worn out joints and tired, overworked muscles remind him constantly of the price he has paid for his passion for perfection and hard work, often in the cold or inclement weather. Despite life's pounding which has taken place over more than eight decades, he smiles and laughs at any excuse, but always when he is playing Cribbage.

Despite my own evidences of Parkinson's disease, disabling my skill at shuffling and dealing the cards as quickly as I once did, I enjoy these times immensely. Perhaps it is the game, or the distraction it offers from some pain, troubling symptom or other of life's challenges. Maybe it is the warmth that, wrapped in the friendly banter between us, has grown consistently since he welcomed me into his family some 40 years ago. Despite the fact that the game facilitates competitive rivalry, both of us trying to best the other, moaning about the bad cards that have been dealt, complaining about the luck of the other, or threatening retribution after losing a game, there is a sense of comfortable camaraderie when we play. It feels like sliding one's feet into a well-worn pair of slippers or putting on an old, favorite sweater. It keeps the chill away and warms your heart at the same time.

Perhaps there is some correlation between the "crib" of that first Christmas, and the customary Christmas games of "Crib" that have formed my definition of good, family, Christmas time. There is a sense, despite the apparent lack of any logical relationship, that both cribs communicate that "all is well with the world". Both, if I am honest with you, give me a feeling of well-being, a simple sentiment of "goodwill towards men". In a time when living day-to-day can be demanding, they both offer, to a greater or lesser extent, a place of peace.

When Failure Is Good

2011-12-18T00:14:00.000-08:00

Tonight, year-end deadlines gather and perch in my thoughts, impatient like Hitchcock's "Birds" on nearby power lines, ready to swoop down, sinking their claws of guilt deep into my conscience. Only a few days ago, at least it seems, the year was fresh. But now 2011 has all but disappeared, leaving too much disappointment. How easy it seems to beat ourselves up (and perhaps others) for failure to meet our expectations. Or blame my demon, Parkinson's.

Last night, four of us, good friends for all kinds of reasons, sat for more than four hours in the small and seasonally noisy restaurant. We had enjoyed meals there together before, shared stories, laughter and heartaches, but last night seemed different. It was one of those times when everyone seemed to share a common theme, something that bound us together, as it does much of our generation, without fully recognizing it. We were driven by high expectations. And, more powerfully, we bear the burden of them unfulfilled, at least to some extent. Other patrons, seated nearby, glanced up from time to time and must have struggled to decipher the snippets of intense discussions they had overheard. When we finally surrendered up our table we felt a little lighter, not physically but emotionally, yet the question plagued me. How can we stretch toward the stars, make dreams come true, and pursue the barely possible, without the whiplash, the fatigue and the soul-deep sense of loss and failure?

Perhaps, and this is but my theory, my peers and I, in our thirst for achievement, our naïve race towards frontiers of unimaginable complexity, and our mindless pursuit of plenty, we failed to see that we must ultimately lose all that we had gained. We failed to learn the good of that.

It is in failure that we learn what we're made of.

It is in the simple that we gain depth.

It is through the losing that we recognize true value.

It is in knowing need that teaches us thankfulness.

It is through fear that we experience current.

And it is in sharing them all that we know love and true friendship.

So as the door closes on another year, and I am tempted to do penance for my failures, my promises unkept, and my deepest disappointments, I will not call them failures but simply a prayer for strength and humility so that I might grasp the opportunity to grow and learn. Who knows the tests ahead? There is room for failure.

The Moon and Medical Miracles

2011-12-10T01:08:00.000-08:00

Despite being 12 noon, the temperature hovered just above 0°C outside the hospital main entrance. It was Friday. The week was nearly over. I took deep breaths, enjoying the crispness of the air. I smiled as I remembered the medical miracles of the past five days.

It had been eight o'clock that morning, when I was allowed through the coded-entry door into the special department tucked away in the basement of the hospital. It was right beside the chapel. While the mandatory one-size-fits-all yellow pajamas I wore were neither flattering nor fashionable, they did serve the necessary function better than those notoriously revealing, impossible to tie, hospital gowns. Stripped of metal, including my wedding ring, I had followed nurse Nicole as she explained what was about to happen. I was to lie down on a stretcher, head pointed toward the gaping doughnut hole of the Magnetic Residence Imaging (MRI) machine into which I was to be thrust. Ear plugs were inserted, on top of which were placed snug fitting, industrial-style hearing protection devices. A Velcro strip was used to fasten my head to a frame, which in turn was slid into a "helmet". I looked like a Viking warrior ready for battle or immolation. The MRI tube I was slid into was just wide enough for my shoulders. My only communication from the outside world was accessed by looking directly up into mirrors placed at 45° angles so as to enable me to read a computer monitor. On the screen appeared Nicole's reassurances like, "Are you okay?". I was tempted to nod. Over the next 45 minutes or so, the sophisticated MRI equipment that had swallowed me made intermittent sounds like a poorly maintained gravel crusher and a high-powered chainsaw left running at top speed. This explained the hearing protection. After a short break, and time to take my Parkinson's medication, it was back into the enamel culvert for more Kodak moments. Apparently, this high-priced apparatus had the ability to take precision pictures of my dopamine depleted brain.

The week had begun, Monday morning, in the comparative quietness of another technological tunnel. Then it had been a Positron Emission Tomography scanner (PETscan). There, instead of exposing me to very loud sounds, I was injected with radioactive isotopes that were supposedly successful in navigating certain convoluted pathways in my brain. The "tracer" is like a luminescent paint used to highlight aspects of neurological function (or dysfunction in my case). Again, this enabled particularly important photo ops of glowing brain bits.

On Tuesday morning, having just peeled off the round little Band-Aids from the PET scan injection sites on the inside of my left arm, I was privileged to be given supposedly safe dosages of hepatitis A, hepatitis B and typhoid fever. These vaccinations were delivered with a smile and three stabs, one in the right shoulder muscle and two in the left, followed by three more round Band-Aids. Just a few more appointments, and an indeterminate number of body piercings, and I will be the proud beneficiary of immunity to virtually every disease known to man (except, of course, the one that I have already).

Of course, none of the events explained above are anything other than the necessary consequences of volunteering for studies on people with Parkinson's, and preparing for my round the world trip starting in May 2012 (more details to follow shortly). I am humbled by these medical opportunities, recognizing that few people in the world would have had the high tech treatment in their lifetime that I received this week. We are all prone to complain. Yet, we do so as spoiled children. In fact, it seems that the more we have, the more we complain about.

Life is full. This weekend I'm going to spend some time outside. Just breathing in that cold December air and marveling at the beautiful full moon I get to enjoy.

150 Days to the Trip of a Lifetime

2011-12-03T01:02:00.000-08:00

It was 1967. The world exposition was in Montréal. And I was there. I had never been so far away. I knew it was 2700 miles (4300 km) from my home, but it was even further from the cultural cocoon that was my apple orchard upbringing. The train trip took more than three days, an adventure on its own. I was sent as a representative of my Coldstream scout troop to demonstrate scouting skills at the Scout Pavilion for a week with several dozen other boys from across Canada. There, for the first time, the small, naïve, simple, rural world of 15-year-old farm boy collided with the metropolitan sophistication and complexity of a world-class city. It was a game changer.

In 2012, there will be a repeat performance. Not in Montréal, as chic and cultured as that great city may be. No, this time the stakes are higher. But just like I did in those months leading up to Expo 67, I find myself consumed with dreams of drama and adventure, encountering the extraordinary and the unexpected, and meeting people of tragedy and mystery. Instead of countries from around the world going to Montréal, I will be going around the world to 15 different countries. Inevitably, it will be a game changer.

Days flash by like cards shuffled into the deck, never to be seen again. A glimpse, a blink, a breath and they are gone. Memories…yes…but even they often burrow their way quickly into the hidden creases of my mind to find a home amongst so many others. Weeks, months, and even years, fade into the rearview mirrors of our lives, sometimes with little to distinguish one from another. True, each day holds its treasures if I am careful to search, listen, and wait patiently. But sometimes, whether by plan or serendipity, like permanent marker on a whiteboard, someone or something creates indelible marks on our lives. Out of the ordinary, beyond the mundane, or just being at the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time, those times leave us vulnerable, shaken.

Shaken! Literally, that is how Parkinson's disease affects a life. Like an earthquake, it rattles the daily protocol, shatters our plans and perspective and topples all but well-grounded priorities. And struggling through the aftermath of diagnosis you discover what is important: family and friendships that go deeper than disability, plans and purposes that stretch beyond the comfortable, and an awareness of each disappearing day that starts more easily than it ends.

Whether by reason of PD or simply the passage of time, we must see life for what it is: a voyage down a river that picks up speed as it goes. We need not be passive passengers floating mindlessly. We are each given a paddle, and with it we have choices. What shores will we explore? What boats will we hail? Or will we choose to sleep or stare at life from a distance?

150 days from today; May 1, 2012, a new adventure will begin. And in the meantime… Well, I will plan, prepare and pack for the journey. And I will dream of the days ahead.

The Mask

2011-11-25T22:16:00.000-08:00

The flesh-colored, latex mask felt like a thicker version of the black, plastic masks we wore as kids while playing Zorro, brandishing our homemade swords and shouting, "En garde!" (not knowing the difference between Spanish and French). This one was initially warm and supple as it was laid on my face like a towel at a spa. But as I stared at the ceiling through the eyeholes, the substance hardened and it became clear that the mask did not have disguise as its purpose. Instead of being secured around my head, it was securing my skull to a frame, making it immovable for the one-hour duration of the procedure. The picture of a Frankenstein-like character, strapped to a gurney, came to mind.

This was not the first time I had been brought to this small room tucked away in the basement of the University Hospital. Despite what my amplified tremors might have indicated, I was not afraid. I knew I was in good hands as my head was slid into the "doughnut hole" of the Positron Emission Tomography (PET) machine. Fortunately, I had no fear of closed in spaces. It simply reminded me of being a curious youngster and poking my head in a culvert pipe or an oversized clothes dryer to see what was in there. But, this was no place for claustrophobiacs.

The procedure requirements had started out innocently enough; no food or water for at least eight hours and no Parkinson's disease medication for at least 14 hours. Then there was the mask, a little constraining but quite comfortable actually. The first PET scan was apparently to find out whether I had any brain to work with. Apparently there was enough cerebral functioning left to continue.

Now I am not generally anxious about needles; it is just when someone I don't know wants to poke me with one that I get a little tense. It didn't help much when I was the technician would be shooting a "tracer" into my bloodstream. The image of red-hot tracer bullets fired in the dark didn't really put me at ease. But without even saying, "you will feel a little pinch", the injection was over literally before I knew it. A "tracer" is actually a small amount of radiation attached to a dosage of medication, which is then detectable using the PET scanner. The goal: to find out how my impoverished supply of dopamine would react to different stimuli (in this case, grapefruit juice). All in all, I napped on and off for most of the time, being awoken to receive my "stimuli" through a long tube while the PET scanner was quietly whirring away around my head.

I did not need to be there. I had volunteered to be part of the study dealing with "Treatment Related Compulsive Behaviors and Impulse Control Disorders in Parkinson's disease". Now before you go jumping to conclusions, other than Scrabble, blogging, riding my motorcycle and pursuing adventures along the way, I exhibit no signs of compulsive behaviors or impulse control disorders. However, between 4 and 8% of PD patients receiving long-term treatment develop these complications. For some, it can be devastating. That is why it makes it worthwhile studying this problem.

Since developing Parkinson's disease, my awareness of the need for credible clinical studies has grown exponentially. Given that there is very little risk, participating in this study, and others, is one way I can fight back. It is a contribution I can make to the needs of others, like being a blood donor, an organ donor or just volunteering to help out.

I am looking forward to completing the six session study. Not because I am anxious to have it finished, but because I get to keep my mask. Something to show my grandkids and tell them stories about how I got it. I might even tell them the truth…when they get older.

The Problem with Being You

2011-11-20T22:48:00.000-08:00

I had mistaken the soprano-like bird calls as coming from small hawks or even smaller songbirds that had failed to migrate south for the winter. The high-pitched cries just did not suit the stern magnificence of the two bald eagles, calling to each other as they circled before landing atop one of the 60 foot trees behind our home. It was a bone chilling, cloudless day, the temperature hovering near freezing, which meant the recent snowfall had become a crusty white layer on the lawn. The surprising sound of the two birds of prey cut across the brittle landscape, crisp and clear. As I listened again, I wondered to myself, "Perhaps they don't need to sound powerful just because they are powerful". Still, as I stared at these regal hunters surveying their domain, I could not shake the mental image of a muscle-bound warrior with a squeaky voice.

Bundled against the freezing gusts of wind, I had just completed vacuuming our swimming pool. Odd, I know, but just as the two eagles seemed to ignore November's blustery weather, so does the collection of windblown leaves, sticks and fir needles at the bottom of the pool. It was ironic to me that I was out in the cold maintaining a facility that would not be used again for at least seven months. I wondered if anyone was watching. I felt as out of place as if I had been hanging Christmas lights in the middle of summer.

Life seems full of inconsistencies, scenes that jar our sensibilities, leaving us pondering the puzzle piece that just doesn't fit. That is the way it is with my Parkinson's disease. In many ways I feel as if I am in the prime years of my life. I have been blessed beyond belief with family, friends and stimulating work that is both helpful to others and rewarding. Life seems to have created a springboard of possibilities. But as promising as the picture may look from a distance, closer examination discloses flaws and limitations, faults and pending failure. It is as if there are two Bobs; one ready for the adventures of the next several decades and the other stumbling along day by day, wondering when weakness will prevail.

I live with a type of schizophrenia; a lack of clear definition as to who I really am. The self-portrait seems to be sketched by two artists; one unstintingly optimistic, smiling and ready for anything, while the other is expressionless, frozen in fear of what is yet to be. There is a problem being "me". Society dictates that, to the maximum extent possible, one should present a singular persona, preferably one that can be put into perspective at a glance. As Ralph Waldo Emerson affirmed, "…consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds…", and we all seem to have little minds. We have a difficult time seeing the strong being weak, the wise lacking answers, the brave showing fear.

As a result, we suffer a lack of integrity, the state of being whole, and complete or undivided. Our self-concept is confused. We have a problem being who we are because we have a problem knowing who we are. The frightening truth is that I am both characters at once and the presence of Parkinson's disease demands a dynamic self-evaluation of who I really am. It is a moving target. It is not limited by who I feel I am, who I am told I am, who I have been or who I want to be. I am a person in process, partly enigma and partly self-evident. I am a collage of the incongruent. I am learning to live with the problem of being who I am.

Built to Fail

2011-11-12T01:03:00.000-08:00

Frank and Pete, although they had never met, shared at least one thing, a respect for Classic cars, including Babe, my 1967 Camaro.

Frank is known as "The Alignment Man", literally. I got to know him shortly after struggling into Palm Desert having driven Babe from the rainy weather of British Columbia to the desert sun of Southern California. I figured she'd like it better down there, and I would likely drive her more than I do at home. En route we had lost 3 tires, one each day, due to the age of the rubber (apparently it's illegal for shops to put tires that are more than eight years old on a car). But even after purchasing 4 new white walls, Babe showed a suicidal inclination to veer left hand play "chicken" with oncoming vehicles. That soon led me to Frank's small 3 bay shop at the very back end a rundown, cinder block building in the poorer part of town.

Arriving early, there seemed to be no one around, although all the doors were open. But after a few minutes an old golden Labrador, followed by a tall, muscular man in his mid-60s, carefully stepped down from a circa 1960 RV parked in the corner of the parking lot. It was Frank's home; making for a short walk to work and a convenient and cost-effective security response. Frank walked with a stiff leg, looking every bit the Vietnam vet. It seemed to me that he was surviving in a back eddy of society, still suffering from the war wounds, both physical and emotional. Despite being unimpressed by the tiny, disheveled office that could have qualified for an episode of "Hoarders", I immediately trusted Frank. He clearly knew his classic cars. He seemed almost delighted in taking Babe on a test drive while I minded his shop. On his return he not only described the required fix in detail, but listed other unseen issues that would sometime need attention. After doing what was needed, and charging me a modest amount for the work, I asked him for the name of someone he trusted to check some mechanical issues I had noticed. His answer surprised me. With a redesigned tone he muttered, half to me and half to himself, "All my friends that know old cars are either out of the business or dead".

Another search led to Pete's Automotive, a going concern on the outskirts of town. Pete was an unassuming man of Mexican descent in his late 50s, who proudly wore his name prominently displayed on his left chest pocket and cap. He carefully, almost reverently, inspected my car, nodding his head in appreciation at what great shape she was in. Looking at the antifreeze fluid dripping slowly from the undercarriage, he immediately diagnosed a bad frost plug as the culprit. These plugs are built to fail by popping out if freezing occurs, thereby avoiding significant damage to the motor. After inspection, Pete, like Frank had done, identified a list of problems Babe was having. Her brakes were seeping a little brake fluid. The oil sending unit was leaking oil. The alternator was missing the bolt that attached it to the block. The headlights were out of kilter. The list went on. "The car is in great shape," he stated, "but at her age, there are lots of things that can go wrong. They just wear out."

Getting older, even though staying in good shape, means things can go wrong or just plain wear out. If we were cars we would get traded in or relegated to the wrecker's yard. Parkinson's disease is just one thing that seems to hasten certain types of breakdowns. But we are all facing the reality of getting older. In a way, we are built to fail. The question we all answer, intentionally or otherwise, is, "How will we respond?"

I get frustrated with Babe sometimes. At 45 years old, almost 15 years younger than me, she does not perform like she used to. She lacks the modern technology and conveniences that new cars take for granted. Given her life expectancy, I probably spend more on her than she is actually worth. But despite the clunk her transmission makes when cold, and the wind whistling through the age-stiffened rubber window seals, there is something encouraging about a ride in Babe. She still turns heads. She has a graceful sort of pride. She seems to smile at me and gently say, "I am weathering the challenges of aging. What about you?"

Tennis Anyone?

2011-11-05T22:29:00.000-07:00

I had not played a game of tennis for well over 30 years. But there I stood on court number eight, trying desperately to remember the rules of the game, where to stand at different times in the game, and the sequence of scoring, not to mention etiquette. It seemed like a recipe for certain embarrassment. Certainly, it was prime time for my tremors to shift into high gear. It could've been due to a multitude of causes. The tennis racket in my hand felt unfamiliar, more like one of those hand-held bug zappers than a carefully tuned, graphite "weapon". In addition, despite the sun and cloudless sky, it was chilly to be outside in shorts and a T-shirt. And, of course, there was my Parkinson's disease. These three formed a killer combination.

Beginners in most endeavors are recognized as such and given lots of leeway. But those who return to the game of tennis, even after a significant absence, have nothing to blame, except the typical human frailties of age, injuries or ailments. I had my "trump" excuse ready at hand. Entering the "arena" to meet the remainder of my foursome I had fully intended to blame my anticipated lack of skill, style and tennis knowledge on PD. However, after noting that each of the other three players was at least 10 to 15 years older than I was, I gave up that pretense.

Along with the lack of recent experience at the game, I had also forgotten the importance of having the right clothing. Each of the other players wore perfectly appropriate apparel. Fortunately, it was a cool morning, at least by Palm Desert standards, so I had an excuse for my mismatched wardrobe. If the tennis security patrol had been diligent they would've noticed my laughable attire; an old pair of blue shorts with the word, "NAVY", emblazoned in bright yellow on one leg, a white, long sleeve T-shirt with a totally useless pocket on the left chest, and a wine colored Tiger Woods golf cap to top it all off. Despite white Nike socks, complete with "swoosh", and an ancient, weathered pair of white tennis shoes, I would not have been accused of wearing "tennis whites"!

But my lack of sartorial correctness was nothing compared to the obvious contrast in tennis rackets. Mine was a very recently purchased Walmart "Wilson" special that had come with three tennis balls, two wrist bands and an elasticized headband (supposedly to reduce the risk of sweat dripping into my eyes thereby spoiling a baseline smash). The total I had paid for my "complete tennis needs" lacked a zero when compared with the rackets held by other players for which they paid at least $200 more. It could've been worse. It was a good thing that I had not been able to find my wooden racket that I purchased in 1972.

Now tennis is a strange game with odd rules and peculiar vocabulary. Perhaps this is derived from its upper crust beginnings in 19th century England. The most confusing aspect of the game is scoring. I never understood why scoring the first point equaled 15, the second, 30, the third, 40, and the winning point, "game". Tennis also has the peculiar distinction of being the only circumstance in which "love" means nothing.

Needless to say, my return foray onto a tennis court was not a return to my 20s. Dashing about like one of the frantic rabbits that populate the bushy areas near our complex, I accomplished little in terms of successfully returning the ball over the net. But I did get a good workout, as it appeared that I was the only one doing any sweating. Good thing I had my wristband! I managed to lose, and simultaneously embarrassed my partner, in every game until I was partner with "Ace". Ace was the community ringer who played tennis at the level significantly higher than anyone of his neighbors. He had earned his name honestly. Playing on his side of the net we won more than we lost. It only occurred to me later that, despite my ineffective leaps and lunges, I had rarely touched the ball during any of the games. The typical line shouted by my teammates was, "Good effort!"

When we were finally finished, my fellow players were very kind and did not openly laugh about my rather futile efforts at regaining my former tennis prowess, such that I remember it. Oh well, I got a serious 90 min. workout and actually enjoyed the games. Leaving the court with my partners’ promises of return matches and untrue pleasantries such as, "Good game, Bob", I struggled to disguise the grimacing from my tortured muscles as I headed for home. I would need the next five hours to sleep and recuperate in order to stagger back to the courts for my next tennis humiliation at 4 PM. I wondered aloud how this was doing any good for my Parkinson's disease.

Shaking Is Not Normal!

2011-10-28T00:11:00.000-07:00

The shaking began slowly, like a shimmy in the steering wheel when the tires are not properly balanced or the front end is out of alignment. My initial response was to laugh a little (not out loud). "My old car has early onset Parkinson's!" But soon the joke ended as the tremor evolved into a serious shudder as we began to literally bump down the freeway. It was as if one tire was oblong instead of round. My friend, Gord, and I, looked at each other. We knew what it was.

It was past 5 PM on Sunday, day two of our road trip to California. Until that moment my ‘67 Camaro had performed like the true classic she was. We had carefully checked radiator level, engine oil, automatic transmission fluid and tire pressure (even the spare, which had a habit of losing air). We had driven her carefully, averaging 55 to 60 miles an hour. Every car on the road passed us, but that was fine. We just wanted to enjoy the adventure. Well, the journey, like a good adventure, had just become a little less predictable.

We were 17 miles north of Sacramento. We pulled over onto the shoulder to inspect each of the rare, red striped tires. It was the left rear tire. The tread, despite having little wear, had separated. We surmised that it was likely the heat from highway speeds. A bulge the size of a large egg had developed in the middle of the tread of the tire. It could go no further without potentially sending us into some guardrail. Pulling out the somewhat leaky spare and the somewhat rusty jack, we soon realized the old-style wheel nut wrench was no match for the pneumatic impact wrench that had tightened the lug nuts. They would not budge. We could not change the seriously damaged tire. We needed a better tool.

Limping our way to the next freeway exit with a gas station, we tried, in simple English, to explain our predicament to a Punjabi-speaking immigrant employee. But as the sole attendant he was struggling with a more dangerous issue. While the gas station was open, a blazing beacon of hope, it had no gasoline, only diesel. This was not going over well with prospective customers, the bulk of whom were driving monster, 5 mile per gallon farm trucks, which explained why gas was $4.01 per gallon and why California was in serious financial trouble. Fighting off constant mosquito attacks, we approached everyone who was willing to talk to us in an effort to find a better tool to remove the wheel. Finally, after 15 minutes and an equal number of mosquito bite welts, two Hispanic young men wearing crocodile skin cowboy boots agreed to loan us the crossbar tool we needed. It took a while to find the wrench, as the trunk space in the late-model Mustang convertible was almost completely filled with throbbing speakers.

By the time we reached the next sizable town, Woodland, California, no tire stores were open, it being after 6 PM on a Sunday. We knew that we needed new tires or face the potential of roadside desertion. We did not yet know how difficult finding the right tires would be. Deciding it was safer to stay rather than go on to our planned destination, the ubiquitous Motel 6, at $49 a night, presented itself as the most logical overnight accommodation.

The next morning brought sunshine, but our enthusiasm was dampened immediately at the national chain tire shop where we were told, "These are very rare tires. We will have to order them in and it will take two or three days". We chose to venture back onto the I-5.

It was 3 PM on day three when the familiar shaking began again. We were 15 miles out of Bakersfield California, with time running out on finding a solution to our tire problems. But, after numerous stops, we came upon a kind soul who phoned the owner of a local but out of the way tire shop for us. He, in turn, located, complete with a layer of dust and ample evidence of a spider’s comfortable home, two mismatched, old stock, black wall tires that fit Babe’s 14 inch rims. They must have been the last two in the State of California. We were obviously desperate, traveling through, once-in-a-lifetime customers. Despite Gord's able negotiation efforts, we doubtless paid too much for something the tire shop was only too glad to be rid of. Still, we were happy to have them.

By 6 PM we were back on the road, headed towards the Mojave Desert with two new (sort of) tires and one leaky spare. My tremors (the Parkinson’s variety) were worsening as I considered the ominous information gained about the two remaining, red striped, ready to blow, front tires. What were the chances of another two tires developing a bad bout of STD “separating tread disaster”?

Classic

2011-10-25T22:51:00.000-07:00

She could not remember the last time raindrops had slipped carelessly down her sleek sides. She had stayed inside so long, only venturing out when I took her for short junkets on a rare sunny Sunday afternoon. Her recent years had been spent silent, hidden under her blue sheet, no doubt feeling abandoned. But today was different. Today, mixed with the odour of burning leaves, was a tangible smell of excitement; real adventure awaited her. It was like the good old days. The hours spent exploring country roads or speeding down a freeway. They were simple times. Carefree times. Classic times, really.

"Babe" had always sported a soft, shy blue color since she came out of her Flint, Michigan, factory 45 years ago. She was always pretty and desirable, but had spent a good many years as basic transportation, suffering the normal bumps and bruises that come from undersized parking stalls and following trucks too closely. But over the last 18 years she has become, like most of those who first drove her, semi-retired. Even so, after some needed body work, new factory-authentic paint and restored interior, Babe must have felt brand new and ready to go. But to protect the classic she had now become she was, something like my daughter's cat, an 'inside car', to be taken outdoors only under ideal conditions.

Taking a road trip to California in a 1967 Camaro, powered by a 250 cubic inch motor, may seem like a trip down memory lane. The only thing is that my memory had managed to blindly glorify the 'good old days'. There have been some changes over the past 45 years.

Modern vehicles may enjoy luxuries such as multi-zoned temperature controls and expensive audio/visual systems, Babe had a simple fan/temperature/defrost control (no air conditioning) that worked best in cooperation with small, triangular, side-vent windows called, inexplicably, "no drafts", a long since outmoded feature. There was no back up warning system or electronics of any kind. The AM radio and windshield washer had not worked for years. The headlights were dimmed by a small, left-foot operated button, if you could find it in the dark. There was no cruise control, right hand mirror, 3-point seat belts (lap belts only), headrests, intermittent wipers (2-speed though!) or dashboard gauges (except for fuel and speed). But … Babe did have… an ashtray and working cigarette lighter. You never know when they could come in handy.
Despite being in good shape for a classic, things are not the same. She has to be driven more slowly, fluids checked more often and she does not idle as smoothly as before. Long trips, such as this one to California, are adventures more than comfortable drives, leaving us more fatigued than we had expected.

Babe, who has been in the family for a very long time, has become like me. Slower, movements are accomplished more carefully. Everything takes a little longer. There are some undefined rattles and Babe shakes some, especially at faster speeds. She is trying her best to be what she once was, but might be better off just enjoying her new place as a classic; still fully functional and capable of more than being left in the spare garage.

This little road trip will probably take a toll on both Babe and me. But it was worth it. Truly classic.

Halloween, Politics and Parkinson's Disease

2011-10-15T00:57:00.000-07:00

Halloween is approaching so elections must be right around the corner.

When I was growing up the nearest city lights, such as they were, could only be seen from my family’s farm as a distant glow in the western sky. Back then, Halloween was a major event in the lives of my friends. However, we had discovered that no matter how many O Henry bars, red candied apples, caramel popcorn balls or homemade taffy chews you ate that night, you actually lost weight. That was because trick-or-treating was a dark and sometimes dangerous walk between spreadd out houses just to extract a rather small supply of goodies. Long, muddy driveways, small, homemade snacks, dogs with questionable pedigree bounding and barking out of nowhere and, worst of all, no subdivisions, all led to a meager haul. Treats were literally few and far between. Trick-or-treating bore no resemblance to today's chauffer-driven, hundred-houses-in-an-hour, mad excuse for pillaging one's neighborhood on October 31.

However, for we young lads who, whether it was day or night, knew the countryside like the back of our hands, Halloween became an invitation to engage in widespread terrorist treachery; trick and treat. We were like the mujahedin waging an unholy jihad by plundering the easily frightened pilgrims of limited progress. Surprising as it may seem by today's standards, most groups of costumed youngsters werevulnerable, unaccompanied by any phalanx of protective adults. We knew what we wanted and how to get it. We were marauders in a frenzied but fixated state, armed with bandoliers of firecrackers. We launched "cherry bombs", "Tom Thumbs" as well as full packages of "red devils", "canons", and "ladyfingers", fuses lit, in the direction of our quarry. There were none of those “adults only, stand back, careful of your eyes and then say ooooohhhh and aaaaahhhhh" fireworks of today.

The fact that we teenage tyrants were disguised with blackened faces, and dressed in dark clothing when we laid siege, was, in hindsight, probably of questionable benefit. Everyone in our community knew everyone else. Anyone could identify the walk, the voice, the mannerisms and clothing of each member of our gang without much trouble. Nonetheless, we knew that the hapless targeted children were scared and more than willing to drop their bulging pillowcases and run for the nearest porch light. It only took a few of those Robin Hood raids before we could neither eat nor carry more booty. Thereafter, we limited our strategy to high grading each goodie bag. In this way we considered ourselves merciful, leaving the less desirable spoils well within sight of our victims, having only taken only the most sought after chocolate bars and other treats. Shocking juvenile delinquent behavior? Probably. But it all seemed to be part of a game back then. We neither meant nor caused any actual harm. We may have even saved a few trick-or-treaters from a night of terrible tummy aches!

Many of those seeking public office are selfless, community-serving, honest folks, not armed home invaders. But it seems that some politicians who knock on our doors with their hands out are really simply disguised as benefactors, glibly promising to serve the best interests of our communities. They come polling for popularity rather than standing up for principle. It is literally a modern-day trick-or-treat process at times. Those hapless voters who hand out the treats are more likely to avoid the tricks. But like Halloween, elections seem to come once a year. The days leading up to the event are filled with frantic activity in preparation. And when the voting is over, the masks come off, the candy is eaten, and life returns to normal.

Unfortunately, Parkinson's disease, like many other "causes", plays a role in politics. Profile and promotion, the endless appetite for press coverage and photo ops can often drive the plight of PD into the waiting arms of the press and politicos. It seems to me that we, the people with Parkinson's, must avoid being pawns in the game of partisan politicals. I know, Governments, often under-informed, seem to be necessary partners in funding the pursuit of answers to the Parkinson's puzzle. But, to continue the metaphor, we must remember that the hype of each Halloween dissipates quickly amidst the pressing priorities of what follows. Then it is the people with Parkinson's who are left, alone and unable to remove their masks.

The Un-Thanksgiving

2011-10-10T00:45:00.000-07:00

Canadian Thanksgiving and I feel guilty. In fact, it seems like an Un-Thanksgiving. Far from grateful, my thoughts are caught up in a whirlpool of discouragement and discontent. Life is not turning out as I had envisioned. I was going to grow older but remain healthy and fit. I was going to have energy in abundance and a readiness to take on ever more worthwhile challenges. I would stay strong and independent, caring for others, not others caring for me.

Instead, I have Parkinson's disease, and the "easy part", the first 5-year "honeymoon" phase, is in the past. Between fatigue and trying to keep up with a fast-paced schedule, physical fitness is limited to the occasional breathless walk up the 3 flights of stairs to my office. An intricate medley of medication has sapped most of what used to be the boundless energy that fueled many fruitful hours of concentration. Instead of striding into an expanding horizon of opportunity, I need to take care to lower my sights to the step immediately in front of me. My 0wn needs, one day, may well outstrip my ability to care for others.

For instance, I used to love long trips by car, driving many hours without feeling any need to stop. Now, even a 10 minute drive has my leg muscles cramping painfully in a fruitless attempt to stop my foot from pulsing the accelerator like a drummer bouncing on the bass drum pedal. I now prefer others to drive.

And my tremour, ever the insurgent, continuously invades my physical strongholds. My steadiness and dexterity retreat with resentment, having little means to retaliate.

My present circumstances find no metaphor in the sunny Sunday afternoon we had today. And the future seems threatened by lead-belly cloouds looming, ready to make life even more miserable.

But (there always seems to be a "but" doesn't there), just when my recitation of "things gone wrong" had almost eradicated the supposed benefits of a long weekend, I heard two simple words: "Hi, Grandpa". The sparkling eyes and intensely genuine smile had the same affect as a size 11 steel-toed boot planted firmly across the breadth of my lower backside. Perspective was instantly restored. Appreciation replenished. It was Thanksgiving again.

Eyes turned inward I had failed to recognize the beauty of the day, the multicolored leaves gathered in piles on the dew-drenched grass, the motorcyclists snatching the final days of two wheeled autonomy, and young men tossing a football outside a church as if flaunting their freedom, jackets and ties discarded. Stuck in the quicksand of self-pity I had forgotten the history of Thanksgiving. In Canada, the first Thanksgiving was in 1578, a celebration of survival, not of plenty in the harvest. The explorer, Frobisher, had made it back to civilization alive after an unsuccessful attempt to find the Northwest Passage by sailing through ice filled Arctic waters. In America, the 1621 Plymouth feast celebrated a "good harvest", although it was not enough to feed the 102 pilgrims for the winter. Were it not for the Native American population who provided the necessary sustenance, the survival of those pitiful pioneers was in serious doubt.

I have been so accustomed to everything going so well; marriage, family, friends, career, a treasure chest of dreams come true and more. But it seems that true Thanksgiving is spawned by deprivation more than abundance, simplicity rather than success, honest dependency not prideful self-sufficiency.

Yes, Parkinson's may rob me of my steadiness of hand, leaving instead embarrassing evidence of my impairment. Fatigue may dog my daily steps and pull against the chain of unmet expectations. But, still, what an extraordinary life it is! Where weddings capture love, once lost or left alone in sadness. Where rocking restless babies, gently coaxed to sleep, brings smiles undimmed by fears of danger yet ahead. Where faith in something/someone bigger lends to life the meaning and the courage to go on. Where friends and family give so gladly, and forgive so readily for reasons left unstated. Yes, PD is a thief of grand proportions who would steal my love of words and wisdom, or commandeer my attitude and plunge it into darkness.

But I must choose to hear those words that wakened me today. It took two words to rouse me from that sleep of desperation. And in the process I was taught to say another two, a truthful "thank you" in my heart, and to my world and anyone who’d listen. I've learned a prayer today. So while I have strength, breath and life to live, let me often pray these two words. Simply, sincerely, "Thank You".

Crunch Time

2011-10-02T00:14:00.000-07:00

It was not yet 6 AM as my associate and I made our way with the commuter traffic with just enough time to comfortably make the 7 AM ferry to Victoria. The rain streaked out of the darkness through the glare of commuter headlights and sentry-like street lamps before stabbing into my windshield only to be swept away by another swipe of the relentless wiper blades. The turn signal perched on the fender of the truck to my immediate left blinked twice. On the third flash the dotted white line that separated our lanes disappeared beneath the black truck tires as they intruded with conviction into what had been my territory. I felt as helpless as Holland in May 1940 when the Nazis rolled over the Dutch border, crushing any opposition and claiming the conquered land as their own.

My body, bracing for impact, went into instant Parkinson-like reaction, my arms and legs stiffened and ached at the same time. Then, like the crushing of an empty Coke can under the heel of a hobnail boot, my front fender crumpled under the invading tire tread. Reacting, I cranked the wheel back into the point of impact as if to push the truck back into its own lane. Apparently sensing some trifling challenge to its highway domination the truck seemed to give ground. Momentarily the grinding of plastic, metal and rubber stopped. But then, as if the truck driver had wanted to take a run at my defenceless vehicle, the unwarranted attack resumed. The pushing match briefly continued.

I don't understand how I managed to avoid being forced over the curb into the waiting embrace of a power pole. But finally the ramming ended and the blue Save-On Disposal bin-hauling truck pulled over. Amazed at the surrender, I surveyed the damage from my driver’s seat, astonished that my midsized Ford was not more seriouslysmashed and still drivable. The right fender and driver door clearly evidenced the predawn confrontation, and the dislodged side mirror clinging to the car by three wires was a symbol of the closeness of the clash. I slammed my shoulder against the inside of my door to get out and confront the tyrant trucker. After three attempts the jammed metal reluctantly gave way and the door opened with a metal-grinding groan. It was striding toward the driver when it happened, the adrenalin-induced shudder and shaking. Parkinson’s disease had reasserted its dominating influence, having politely waited until survival was no longer at stake.

The normal tremors were manageable, but under high stress their amplitude increased to 9.5 on the Richter scale. Getting my licence out of my wallet proved to be an ordeal of dexterity that might have called into question my sobriety were it not before breakfast. Writing down the information from the offender’s driver’s licence was impossible. Even using my Blackberry to photograph it instead produced a fuzzy facsimile.

Despite the unplanned early morning “meeting”, we caught the ferry. Breathing easier I began seeing the day’s events as metaphorical. PD may not have wheels but it has often seemed relentless in its mission to push me off my path. It is our persistent commitment to stay on track not the power of the opponent that will prevail.

Parkinson's, PJ and the Fair

2011-09-24T16:47:00.000-07:00

It was not the Parkinson’s disease that caused the reaction. Crotchety as it may sound, I just dislike county fairs. How many groomed Holsteins, decked out Morgan work horses and suckling pigs does one need to see? How much gut-churning, barely edible, sugar-coated, deep fried lard must one ingest? How many rip-off hawkers selling magic mops and labour-saving vegetable slicer/dicer contraptions do you need? Who really believes it is a test of a man's skill (females know better) to plunk down a succession of $5 bills to play some rigged, balloon-popping, mole-whacking or bottle-toppling game in order to "win" a too-big-to-carry-around plush toy ego trophy. And who really needs to risk 35 seconds on a life-threatening midway ride with a name like "Corkscrew", employing excessive centrifugal force, bone-jarring lurches, and supersonic speed, all controlled by some elementary school drop-out who thinks it's funny when thrill-seekers jettison their cargo of over-priced cotton candy and grease-impregnated onion rings (as beneficial as that gastronomic purge may be)? No, if I never have to attend another wallet-emptying, crowded, tired and tawdry fair again that would suit me just fine.

So what possible mental delusion motivated me to attend the 2011 Pacific National Exhibition, the largest fair in Western Canada? Was it knife-wielding "carnies"? Demonic-possession? Dopamine agonist-induced obsessive/compulsive behaviour? Or was premature dementia at work erasing those carnival-caused scars of my past? No, it was the totally illogical, impulsive and illusory idea of a grandpa who had his grandson to himself for the day. Who would be better to introduce the lad to the garish and gawdy underbelly of entertainment?

If deep down I was hoping to cure 2 1/2 year old PJ of any desire to ever go to another fair, I was hopelessly naïve.

He loved it!

Starting with the livestock barns he was soon spinning, sprinting, dodging and weaving past stalls of prize heifers, coiffed sheep and sleek stallions. Next were the domesticated fowl exhibits. With the attention span of a squirrel with amnesia seeking out a misplaced stash of seeds, PJ squeezed shamelessly to the front of every crowd to catch a glimpse of some blue ribbon ducks, dozing pigeons or exotic hens. In a matter of less than 30 minutes our frenetic farm animal tour had exhausted me. Breaking out of the barns into the late afternoon sunshine we joined the human river in pursuit of alleged amusement. I had no appetite for dashing through the next building with its display of 4H handicrafts. It became obvious that neither did my whirling Dervish of a grandson. His eyes, staring almost straight up, were locked on the top of the Ferris Wheel.

"That one, Grandpa, let's go on that one." Pulling my hand with the power of a small tractor he strained through the crowd with determination. The concept of lining up to buy tickets for anything was a real test of his patience, but especially when the actual process inexplicably required waiting in three line-ups: one to pay for PJ's ride pass voucher, one to get his hand stamped as evidence of payment and one to actually get on any ride. At each end of each queue he voiced an indignant complaint as if he and his entourage of one should immediately be ushered to the front like recognizable royalty. After all, we were wasting precious time shuffling along when we could be racing from ride to ride.

Of course there was a minimum height requirement that, thankfully, restricted access to most of the tummy-testing rides. I say "most" because the first ride for which we were eligible was the "Scrambler" where three benches whirled horizontally counter-clockwise while the whole machine spun clockwise on its axle. Vaguely recalling the ride as being in the relatively tame category I succumbed to PJ's plaintiff refrain, "This one, Grandpa!"

It was different than I remember. Faster and with a force that felt like it would hurl us into the next block, I hung on to my charge. His expression was one of mixed fear and enjoyment and I prayed his lunch would remain in its proper body organ, whatever state of digestion it was in. After a long 30 - 40 seconds of spinning we tottered our way to the exit with PJ admitting the "couch ride", as he called it, made him dizzy. Thus began the pinball-like path from the merry-go-round to the boats, to the kid-sized 4x4's guided around a neck-snapping course that mimicked an off-road experience, to the cars kids would "drive" around a track. We did them all, at least everyone that permitted him to ride, and many more than once. He refused to stop and eat (I was relieved) and the hours flew by as I enjoyed the sensory overload through the glee-filled eyes of my grandson. Images of Pleasure Island amusement park, with Pinocchio and the wayward boys turning into donkeys, crossed my mind.

It was dark before I could convince (a.k.a., bribe) my grandson to leave the fairgrounds with the promise of ice cream. My Parkinson's disease was making itself evident as I had grown increasingly stiff, muscle-tired and fatigued.

The ride home was silent, except for the gentle snoring of the sleeping lad, had slumped into the corner of his car seat. Sneaking a peek in the rear-view mirror I wondered whether he was dreaming about being buckled into another ride. The smile that had widened after each ride was still evident. It was then I realized my own cheeks were a little stiff and sore. But it was not, as I first suspected, my Parkinson's disease at work. It was my own wide grin that looked back at me from the adjusted mirror as if to mock my smug resolve to avoid midways, sideshows and fairs. Perhaps I would go occasionally...for my grandson.

Misery Loves Company?

2011-09-17T23:44:00.000-07:00

The small group that gathered at Evergreen Hall sat on metal stacking chairs behind plywood-topped tables placed to form a hollow square. The uncomfortable chairs with curved plywood seats and backs were, not ideal for an audience I needed to engage for an hour while I spoke about "Staying Positive with Parkinson's". It was a diverse gathering of seniors, most of whom seemed to be dealing well with their PD symptoms. In fact, they seemed more concerned about my symptoms as I repeatedly attempted to refer to my speaking notes while they fluttered about as if trying to escape my shaking grip. I was offered, and gladly accepted, and upside down cardboard box to serve as my lectern.

"Why are they here?" I mused to myself. Was it just an opportunity to escape the daily routines dictated by the disease we shared? Was it to share a cookie and some coffee with a few friends and acquaintances who would not look questioningly at their shaking hands, stiff and shuffling steps or expressionless faces? Was it somehow an attempt to share, if only silently, the anger and anguish of a disease that demanded more from each of them every day? Were they here to hear a story of a fellow sufferer? Is it true that "misery loves company"?

A curious phrase, "misery loves company". It originated from Dr. Faustus, a play from the 16th century about a man who was prepared to give up all hope by signing a pact with the devil in exchange for 24 years of living with his desires being fulfilled. The quote is from the lips of Mephistophilis, the devil's agent, in answer to the question about why Satan seeks to enlarge his kingdom. The phrase appears to mean that those who are unhappy seek to make others unhappy too. Is that true? It does seem that the older we get the more we seek to share our maladies, aches and pains; the pills we are taking, the operations undergone, the alternative medicine remedies we have tried. Are we commiserating? Are we truly seeking to drag others into a miserable hell like the clever demon attempted Dr. Faustus?

The introduction to my presentation seemed to fit the Faustian quote. I asked, "How many of you have Parkinson's? How many of you are getting worse? How many of you have been discouraged by the disease? How many of you have been embarrassed by the symptoms?" Nearly all hands shot up after each question. No one was smiling. It was if I had reminded them of the misery they shared. There was the challenge!

“Misery” is the state of suffering, unhappiness or emotional distress. Is that what we seek to share? Granted, there are times when self-pity, hopelessness and anguish shroud us like a dark fog. But, if we look intently, there is always encouragement, hope and purpose. While our PD may be getting worse, we can become wiser, more compassionate and patient. While depression may come knocking, we can choose to focus on the positive, the humorous, the uplifting. Despite the death of some dreams, trodden underfoot by this debilitating disease, we can discover new and heartwarming visions, a future packed with promise, and opportunities to make much-needed contributions that had been unrecognized before.

We do not need to become like Inspector Jauvert in Les Miserables. We can refuse to be mired in misery. We can each venture with courage into the uncharted territory ahead of us, "looking for adventure and whatever comes our way".

Those dozen or so folks who gathered together were proving that Parkinson's disease has not defeated them. Their very presence encouraged me. My suspicion, as I looked in the eyes of those I barely knew, was that, in truth, misery does love company, but it is in hope that the company it keeps will dissolve the suffering state like sunshine disperses the rain.

Parkinson's is NOT Contagious

2011-09-10T04:48:00.000-07:00

Anxiety, like acid, etched lines into the forehead of the obviously well-to-do woman sitting at the table next to ours. Her green eyes were fixed on the jerking arms and legs of the young man who had recently been seated at a table in the corner of the restaurant patio. Seemingly unable to look away, the faces of another half-dozen patrons betrayed the same mixture of fear and helplessness. Soon it seemed that everyone in the restaurant was watching the man's body as it waged a civil war, one uncooperative limb seeking to restrain another. Distracted by the obvious dyskinesia, few noticed the face of the struggling diner as he strained to hide the shame. He seemed to know that his dignity was in the process of being strangled by the stares of those who pretended to be looking at their meals. In apparent self-defense his pride seemed to take refuge in listening attentively to his female table mate. It was as if his companion was saying, "Don't worry. Just ignore them".

"I wonder what he's got, poor fellow. I hope it's not contagious” the tanned lady behind me ssaid, voicing her ignorance in too loud a whisper. She shifted position uneasily in her chair as she redirected her gaze from the unlabeled disease carrier back to her dessert. I wanted to apologize to the man for the woman's ignorance. I wanted to explain to his audience why the new dinner guest struggled to stab bits of salad on his plate and then negotiate them into his mouth. I wanted to enlighten my fellow observeers that, despite their charmed life of diamonds and dessert, it was lack of knowledge that fueled their fear, making man in the corner a "threat" to some. I wanted to tell him that I understood why he was seated on the fringe of the veranda that Californian evening. But even though we shared a diagnosis, I knew I didn't really understand; at least not yet.

Apathy and fear of the unknown can easily drive into isolation those who cannot help but be different. Parkinson's disease, unlike many other (even life-threatening) maladies, expresses itself in antisocial symptoms. The obvious rhythmic tremors of hands, arms, legs and even heads, the wooden soldier-like stiffness, frozen facial features and stooped posture all betray the brain’s loss of dopamine. While little pills can prop up our pride temporarily, they only give a short term dose of "normality" before reality returns with a new round of randomn movements.

But Parkinson's disease is not contagious. No one needs to panic. While daily dramas may play out in the lives of those with PD, it isn't likely to create pandemonium. It is not like the movie we saw last night, "Contagion", which portrayed a pandemic of panic. At least those of us who are "infected" need not fear passing it on through a handshake or even an errant cough.

Perhaps, all of us with Parkinson's need to brave some discomfort or embarrassment and embrace instead a new more inclusive definition of "normal". Or better yet, why don't we just replace "disabled" with "different". Perhaps we have a calling to portray Parkinson's positively. It is a disease to be understood, not pitied.

I was proud of that unknown person with Parkinson's as he staked out his place on the patio of that restaurant in Southern California. I expect it took some courage, but the longer he stayed the less attention he attracted, as if proving that, whatever onlookers believed he had, it was not contagious.

An Hour in the Shower!

2011-09-03T00:37:00.000-07:00

Every Saturday night the galvanized steel bathtub was dragged across the linoleum floor in the kitchen to its usual central spot. The water had been heated and stood waiting in its wooden-handled, copper boiler on the wood-burning stove. After being mixed with some cold water in the tub, the swift bathing sequence began. In retrospect, I am not sure why the youngest, having the least bladder control, went first. Even then I disliked the idea of lying back in the tub to get my hair washed. There was no draining of the tub for fresh water after each bather, as we had no indoor plumbing, except for a cold water spigot in the kitchen. Hot water was added to the tub as needed until the family bath night was finished and the water emptied outside.

Perhaps that is why I never saw the attraction to taking a bath. It had never been a leisurely, relaxing activity when I was young even after no longer sharing the bath water with my whole family. I could easily do without a bathtub in the house at all. The idea of luxuriating for an hour in a bath seems like a curious custom to me. Steeping like a human teabag in tepid water, struggling to wash all available body parts and then remaining seated in the soiled water developing the wrinkles of Yoda all the while attempting to read some soon to be sodden paperback novel. Now really!

Showers have almost entirely displaced the taking of baths, at least in North America. Whether or not it uses less water may remain debatable, but showers are unarguably more convenient, faster and safer than a bath. Besides which, you stay wrinkle free in the shower.

I was thinking about the differences between them this morning when a longing to remain for an hour in the shower came over me. Just imagine standing cross-armed, the tingling, totally relaxing warm water massaging your back and neck while you ponder ideas that only seem to occur to you in the privacy of that cubicle. Maybe it was up form of escapism from the busy day that lay ahead. But it quickly faded and responsibility took over. Given that I enjoy a very hot shower, it would drain the hot water tank, leaving angry cohabitants of my household, as well as a carbon footprint the size of the Grand Canyon. However, the idea of an hour in the shower mirage-like vanished as I realized I can't, don't, or won't take time for an hour-long drenching in the shower. Ironically, that peaceful prospect fell victim to the frenetic lifestyle in the same way as did the unhurried bath.

The frantic pace of living, like being caught in some perpetual rush hour, leaves little opportunity to pull over, turn off the motor, park for a while and just think deeply. Gaining perspective and privacy away from the maddening crowd seems too much to ask for. Even seeking after it may have largely disappeared in the onslaught of distraction as I commented recently.

Like some bygone customs that recycle through history, maybe the idea of a long, laid-back soak in the tub deserves reconsideration. Almost countercultural. Of course, I would have to forgo the book-reading, as I couldn't hold it still enough. And I suspect I would be tempted to nap in the warmth of the steamy bath. But as long as I could avoid the memories of being plunked into the soapy water of that metal bathtub in the kitchen, I think it might be enjoyable. Maybe better than an hour in the shower.

202 in 2 Years and Still Positive About Parkinson's

2011-08-28T22:17:00.000-07:00

CCII. Roman numerals for 202. It seems appropriate somehow to indicate the number of posts over the past 2 years. While on average I try to write twice a week, there has rarely been a week when I have not posted at least one time. Lately, a jam-packed schedule has prevented my preferences from overwhelming my duties. Life has definitely not slowed down much and maybe picked up a little as I enter the fall months. But I am thankful for the opportunity to share and encourage, complain and explain, as well as join the worldwide community of millions of ordinary people with Parkinson's who just want to be heard and understood.

Over the past 2 years, there have been over 32,000 "hits" by 20,000 visitors who have viewed 50,000 pages to see what Positively Parkinson's is all about. The blog is averaging between 2000 and 3000 visitors a month from everywhere. People from Peru to Pakistan, Israel to Indonesia, Mozambique and Macau have stopped long enough to read at least one post.

But whatever others may have garnered from this amateur effort to communicate about my partnership with Parkinson's, I have gained the most. Positively Parkinson's has allowed me, even forced me, to be transparent about living with the disease. It focuses my attention. It provides accountability. It forces me to decide how I will respond to the unwanted opportunity, PD. It compels me to look at the "thorn in my flesh" and fully examine its implications for my life. Writing each week precludes a glib positivistic palaver, while at the same time refusing to permit self-pity to take my life prisoner.

I am very thankful for those of you who read my pondering prose, provide encouragement and share your own lives. I have learned from you that:

1. If I concentrate too much on the audience I miss the mark entirely. Trying too hard to please the reader produces the unreadable.

2. Real life experiences communicate better than "sermons". I suppose that is simply a corollary of "walking the talk".

3. Alliteration is not always advisable. Blunt is often better than beautiful. Cleverness can camouflage the true content.

4. I must always risk writing from the heart. If I am not sincere I am not trustworthy.

5. Statistics and Comments are not the true measure of value. Encouragement of one person is easily enough to make the effort worthwhile.

6. In the end, I must write because it is part of me. Therapeutic, yes. Cathartic, certainly. Creative expression, sometimes. Encouraging of others, my greatest aspiration.

7. There is no end of topics, just as there is no end of things to discover in life. Wait until you hear about my plans for 2012!

Because of all the lessons learned I fully intend to continue with Positively Parkinson's. I am humbled by you joining in my journey. You helped me carry my burden. I so appreciate your hugs, phone calls, e-mails and words of reassurance. Many times when I have felt alone, you have sent a note to convince me otherwise.

Let's make it 303!

Leaving a Legacy

2011-08-21T22:52:00.000-07:00

She was 85, looked bewildered and paused, seemingly groping for an answer to why she did not have a will. "I didn't think I needed one. I don't have much to leave anyone." I explained how dying without a will is like going away, indefinitely, and leaving your house locked without trusting a family member, neighbor or anyone with the key. No one can get into your home without a court order. You have not decided who should have the right to take possession of your private domain and muddle through your personal effects. No one has been told what you want to happen if you are not there to make that decision. You leave a mess. Chaos, confusion and conflict are the result of the lack of instructions you leave behind. She nodded, silently acknowledging her failure as we began to discuss the topic that feared her most, her death and what would be left behind.

No one likes to think about dying, or about what one will leave behind. Perhaps it is uncertainty about what lies beyond the borders of one’s brain and body. We have no experience with anything but the lives we have lived. Maybe it is a dread that, besides an empty spot at some dinner table, we will not be missed much. It could be that it is just too difficult to decide among the competing interests in, and claims to, your worldly possessions. Given those concerns, there is some, minimal I suggest, logic to postponing the process of making a will, a permanent posthumous promise.

However, on the flip side, we have to admit that we are all in the process of leaving a legacy. We will all be remembered, at least by someone for some period of time. There seems to be something deeply embedded in the core of who we are that craves remembrance after we are gone. Everyone had some level longs to leave a legacy. And that's a good thing. It is recognition that one is accountable for how one lives. For some there are eternal consequences, whereas for others life provides simply temporal significance.

Age, and its cohort of diminishing capacities, has a way of focusing our attention on what it will be like when we are gone. Life increasingly becomes a matter of what was, rather than what will be. What, if anything, will people miss about us? What will their fondest memories of us be? What did we start, build or accomplish that will continue or remain? Will the deposits we made in the World Bank of Good Things have outstripped our withdrawals? Or will we have taken from the physical world and our human community more than we contributed to them? Will others seek to follow the footprints we leave behind or pointed the impact they have left with discussed.

Parkinson's disease has a way of putting things in stark relief. It is a reminder that I need to consider my legacy. It is a reminder that I need to do my will.

The Liar in My Head

2011-08-16T22:47:00.000-07:00

"Tell the truth now", she said, trying her best to be stern. Despite my mother wagging her finger at me, or more convincingly, waving the wooden spoon, I feared the truth more than her consequences. Spontaneously, I made up a doozy of a story in the fond hope that I would be believed, thereby avoiding any painful penalty that would otherwise be visited upon my buttocks by my father’s hand or belt when he came home from work. By the age of 12, I was a consummate liar. Feigned sincerity was a specialty of mine, nurtured it seemed by a budding acting career. It was nothing particularly nefarious, just a preteen trying to avoid the reality of his bad choices or the somewhat harsh restrictions that might be imposed by overly-informed parents. I knew that lying was wrong, but did not appreciate why. It seemed perfectly justifiable at the time, in a Darwinian sort of way.

Little did I know then that my penchant for prevarication would be perfect preparation for a career that specializes in uncovering lies. Okay, okay, I hear the chorus cries, "It takes one to know one". But, lest I be anything else but candid, as a lawyer for the past 31 years, I have come to believe that the truth is as scarce as it is sacred. It is feared much more than fostered. While the temptation to give in and tell just "a little white lie" can be overwhelming, I have learned that the truth is colorblind and critically necessary. Covering up some damning evidence, twisting a tale to suit one's convenience or contorting reality until it is unrecognizable are simply unacceptable lies. And lying makes blind fools of us all.

"I solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but truth, so help me God". Despite hearing this innumerable times, I never really understood why this oath was necessary. Leaving aside the "so help me God", as most people do, would one all of a sudden tell the truth if by habit, predisposition or self-serving convenience one was not inclined to do so? My experience in the courtroom strongly suggests that lying is often much easier than telling the truth there.

Lying to ourselves, like peeking through parted fingers supposedly covering one’s eyes, would seem rather pathetic were it not such a popular pastime. Lying to others also seems to be quite acceptable, as if integrity and honesty have been thrown from truth's pulpit by popularity. The truth for many, it seems, is not an absolute at all; it is variable, malleable and circumstantial.

How did we get this way? Was it by abandoning any moral compass for fear of intolerance? Did the lies seem preferable to watching the inexplicably harsh reality of war, famine and injustice on big screens in our living rooms?. Has the skepticism nurtured by those espousing hollow truth made us cynics who lack discernment altogether? Or was it simply the gradual displacement of truth by the allurement of lies that promised happiness.

The propensity to lie finds fertile pasture in the mind of one facing Parkinson's disease. The truth seems like a daily torture chamber of creeping stiffness that feels like concrete hardening around our limbs and unstoppable tremors that threaten a full-scale bodily earthquake. Curiously, we meet this onslaught of reality by a regimen of pills that permit us to pretend we are "normal". Truth presents embarrassment, whereas we prefer addiction to the "acceptance" extended to us because of the medication we take.

How do we deal with the truth? It is rarely popular, and sometimes fatal. But consider life without the relentless pursuit of what is true. Life is truly a cabaret, a charade, a costume party and a meaningless celebration without truth. The "truth" for someone with Parkinson's disease does not paint an attractive portrait. But we can only deal with it if we face our fears and expose the lies that render us helpless.

To pursue truth in living with PD requires that I confront the liar in my head, betraying its delicate delusions, if only to myself at first. I must listen to another source. Somehow, embedded in our souls is a still, small voice that whispers, "… The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth…". There is freedom in that.

7 Reactions to Parkinson’s Disease

2011-08-06T00:17:00.000-07:00

“No question, you have Parkinson’s disease.” The neurologist casually mumbled the words like someone commenting on the weather. I just stared for a moment, then put on my best “I can deal with this” smile and said, “Okay.” Inside I was reviewing mental snapshots of my father’s free fall towards total disability with the same scourge. At the same time I was fast-forwarding to how I will tell my family, the team at work, friends and colleagues about a disease that will get worse.

What do you do when life takes a wrong turn? The sudden death of a loved one? A traumatic accident for which you are responsible? The devastating discovery that you have an incurable disease? Or any serious situation that leaves you feeling like you hit a wall?

Many if not all of us simply REACT. As with most who read this blog, life has been more charmed than marred. But, as is apparent from this blog, PD has presented some challenges. These have often left me in one of seven reaction modes.

Fight. Angry, I wanted to fight back. I did not know how or even why, but it seemed better than doing nothing. Somehow this feels like I regained some control that the disease had taken.

Retreat. Sad and misunderstood, I just wanted to be alone. Of course, this accomplished little except it allowed me to spiral down into self-pity. But it seemed better than watching the pity in others’ eyes.

Ignore. Some call it denial, but to me it was ignoring the fact that life after PD no longer held the same promise, the dreams disappeared or at least differed dramatically. Running from that reality seemed easier than the alternative.

Endure. Coming from a stoic, work-oriented genetic pool, my reaction was often to dig deep and persevere. Related to ignoring, the difference is one of focusing in rather than fleeing.

Negotiate. With the diagnosis, with myself, with God. “Why me?” “What if I was wrongly diagnosed?” “What must I do to be cured?” “Surely,” I thought, “there must be a mistake or some way out of this.”

Defend. Defensiveness was my most prevalent reaction. “Don’t worry about me, I can beat this,” I would think to myself. “Do not pigeonhole me. I am not disabled. I am fine.”

Surrender. Giving up. Resigned to a reality of decline. Although I do react this way at times, I cannot stay there for long both. It is not who I am or want to be. It is the ultimate loss.

These are all reactions. Although they may be “natural”, they are emotional not thoughtful responses. These reactions are places I visit but cannot live for long.

Where I have to put down roots, how I must deal with the disease, is in the acceptance of the diagnosis. I have concluded that my PD is not purposeless pain or purposeful punishment. To succeed at acceptance I need to recognize that I cannot do it alone. I need friends (the clue found in the first letter of each of the 7 reaction words). Friends and family are the foundation for escaping a routine of reaction.

Grandpa and the Red Apple Adventure

2011-07-31T01:05:00.000-07:00

Perched high above the road, the wind cooled my reddening face and tangled my blond bowl-cut hair that I was not quite old enough to be embarrassed by. I was only 5 years old, but I loved riding in my special spot high on top of the carefully loaded apple boxes that had been roped down on the trailer. Every few minutes my Grandpa turned in his seat on the old, underpowered tractor, looked up, smiled and yelled something over his shoulder at me. Then, laughing, he looked forward again to guide the tractor onto the shoulder to allow another vehicle to pass. I could never figure out what he had said. I expect he knew I could not hear him over the wind and the roar of the tractor as it strained under the heavy load at the breakneck speed of 30 mph (50 kph). The usually orchard-bound Massey-Ferguson was unaccustomed to traveling in 5th gear on paved surfaces, as it only made these journeys each year at harvest time.

From the hillside orchard where my family lived with my grandparents it was 3 miles (5kms) to the Vernon Fruit Union packinghouse. There, one box at a time, the family’s harvest of red apples was unloaded onto the platform where they waited to be washed clean of dirt and spray before being graded. While men with sweat stained denim overalls pulled the boxes into the packing house, Grandpa would take me to where older, women would sit on either side of a conveyor belt peering as apples sped by, every now and then pulling one with a scab or odd shape from the parade of fruit. Sometimes he took me to where men nailed tops on new wooden boxes marked “Fancy Spartan Apples” with “Product of Vernon Fruit Union” emblazoned on the end of each box. Occasionally I was lucky enough to see forklifts loading pallets of apple boxes into freight cars on the railway siding alongside the long narrow packinghouse. Everyone was proud of the fact that this Okanagan Valley product was shipped to apple-lovers all around the world.

Despite the obvious truth to the contrary, I felt a part of a critically important chain of commerce. Somehow, when I would be invited along, even if my Mom sometimes did not approve of my precarious placement on top of the loaded trailer, it seemed my Grandpa was offering me a partnership. Somehow, I played a significant, if undefined, role in this red apple business. In those days, what others classified as work was to me adventure. Everyday held endless opportunities for exploration, whether bouncing over furrows in the small orchard, pretending to drive the tractor while balanced on Grandpa’s knee, “helping” him find brown eggs in the chicken coop or trying to squeeze milk from the uncooperative cows in the barn. Everyday was a kaleidoscope of new sights, sounds, tastes and smells. I never remember being bored with Grandpa, or he with me.

Although he never expressed any of this in words, I was accepted, part of a family, loved. I was contributing something just by being myself and spending time with my Grandpa. Only now, 55 years later, do I understand. Now I am the Grandpa. While I have no orchard (the few scrawny apple trees in my backyard being more pathetic than productive), and no tractor except a small John Deere lawnmower, I do have a grandson. And despite my Parkinson’s disease with its tremors and stiffness, never do I feel so accepted, so part of a family, so loved for just being myself than when I am spending time with PJ. And I know now what my Grandpa was saying back then as we took the red apples to town: Life continues to be an adventure through a young boy’s eyes.

Totally Distracted and Running from Reality

2011-07-24T01:05:00.000-07:00

He lives life on the edge. Alcohol-fueled, party-going, fascinated with flirtation, his focus is on the fun-filled and the frivolous. Reality is too painful. But the inevitable consequence of living the fast life, the hard life, is that it easily leads to a short, empty life.

She buries herself in the details of retirement. She has a schedule filled with healthy activities, connecting with old friends and keeping her time fully occupied. She diverts any discussion away from the harsh diagnosis, the undeniable movement into a future that offers limitations, disability or worse.

They both have Parkinson's disease. They are both addicted to distraction.

This is a struggle we all face. Who among us has not sought to escape, if only momentarily, from the reality that would otherwise confront and overwhelm us? Who has not from time to time succumbed to meaningless and mundane media in order to avoid the seemingly crushing concerns that surround us?

It may be Parkinson's disease, cancer, deafness, arthritis or just pain that doctors have not been able to explain. It may be poverty, persecution, unemployment or simply loneliness. Reality may be filled with deflated dreams, failure or helplessness. To some degree we all live in a reality that compels us to search out diversions. It is easy to become an addict.

Some addictions are too seriously debilitating distractions while others are to relatively playful pastimes, at least initially. Some who crave distraction inhale/snort/shoot drugs that demonize. Others find food their favorite fetish. Some gamble for gain and excitement. Some smoke to take the edge off. Some drink to sleep more easily. Television, newspapers, Ipods and video games, they all can become the objects of our addiction to distraction.

So what is the reality you are trying to escape, deny or avoid? Mine is easy. I do not want to think about my Parkinsonian tremor that makes it difficult to keep my vehicle's gas pedal steady or hold a cup of coffee in my right hand. It can be downright depressing to think of the future, trapped in a body that will not stop moving, dependent on drugs to make it through the day. As scary as it may be sometimes, it is still a reality to be dealt with. I ignore it at my peril. And for me, distractions are a form of running away, a dangerous dance with denial.

The fact is, I have Parkinson's disease. Ignoring it, running away from it or hiding from it will not change that reality. The more I am distracted the less I deal with its reality. But despite how society has entranced me with distractions, I have a choice.

I am learning.

Reality is better than fakery; harder, but better.

Distractions are seductive, promising freedom from reality, but delivering slavery.

One's ability to come to grips with reality depends on one’s ability to defeat the addiction of distractions.

True resting, recreation and relaxing, even retreating, prepare one for reality. Distractions leave one longing to escape.

Life is too precious, too short and too important to spend it distracted.

It is time to deal with the real world. It is time to diminish distractions.

3 Reasons to Attend Your High School Reunion

2011-07-18T00:16:00.000-07:00

Observing the other guest who were entering the large room obviously set up for a party, I felt out of place, as if I had wandered into the wrong event. These people were far too old. I was looking for a crowd of younger friends and acquaintances with whom I had graduated from high school. Some folks I saw here were cleverly disguised by wrinkles, gray hair and expanded waistlines. Others had opted for cosmetic camouflage like a darkened beard, face-altering surgery or a black toupee. For the most part I saw what might have been a retirement party of men and women, many of who evidenced apparently failing eyesight, diminished hearing and an array of other maladies. At first glance they appeared to be strangers, folks I could have stood behind in a Safeway checkout with the barest hint of recognition, saying to myself, "That person looks familiar somehow?"

Surely this was not the Vernon Senior Secondary graduating class of 1970. But, alas, a quick inventory of my own appearance verified that I matched the attributes of this group embarrassingly well. My mousy gray hair, hearing aids, glasses and the Parkinson's disease tremor; it was apparent that I fit. Peering too obviously and too closely at the small print on name tags I soon discovered familiar names, and a laugh or voice betrayed a buried memory. I was in the right place.

"Why had I come?" I asked myself. Sure there were friends there that I had kept up with, most from the Coldstream valley, a small farm and orchard country a few miles from the town of Vernon, British Columbia. A few had even been my classmates from Kindergarten through three years of law school. But I could have visited with them by just taking initiative to meet somewhere sometime. Why come to hear a stale collection of rarely recounted memories best left in the faded pages of the VSS 69/70 yearbook? Why come to learn of fellow students whose lives were train wrecks or sad tales of broken hearts and long-since-buried dreams? I discovered that many had silently answered, “Why bother” and went about their summer days as if the hollow high school years had not happened. But they did. They are a part of our history, a part of who we are right now.

Whether you were a charter member of the ‘in crowd’ or one who suffered the cruelest rejection by peers, high school likely played a critical role in your social persona. Whether you were the academic excellence award winner or one for whom graduation simply meant a permanent parole from structured education, those were important years. Career paths and choices were etched into the working lives of many during those school days. For some, the seeds of marriage were planted, while others faced a future of frustration with love and its facsimiles.

Why had I come? There were 3 reasons.

1. I wanted to see the connection. Although my high school days were lackluster in all respects, they were formative. Yet I had never explored how my pre-grad life connected to my post-grad experiences. I gained some unexpected insights into how the weaving of that formative fabric related to the clothes I wear today.

2. I was curious. How did my life’s story compare to that of others? How had the drama played out for those fellow grads my poor memory could be coaxed to recall? For too many the light-hearted teenage comedies had quickly switched to the saddest stories of self-destruction. For others the Cinderella had finally fled her humiliation. The prince of fame and fortune had arrived with the glass slipper that fit her waiting foot. She found her fairy tale ending.

3. I discovered I cared. The more I thought about it in the weeks leading up to the high school reunion the more undeniable it became. I hurt for those who daily dealt with tragedy. I mourned the loss of lives that ended too soon. I applauded those who doggedly pursued success and found it. It seemed that there was more reason to hug, or at least shake hands warmly, despite any past insecurities that prevented such displays.

As I left the room that night I felt both fulfilled and fearful. I had walked through history and listened to the echoes from my high school halls. I was beginning to understand their richness and meaning. But I also knew that if there were a next time to meet there would be fewer of us to share the senior chapters of the books that we are writing. There would be more fresh-faced photos on the memorial wall to mourn.

Why go to your high school reunion? To see yourself comfortably reflected in the eyes that shared your youth. To give the gift of caring and acceptance. That is reason enough.

It's All About the Ride

2011-07-10T06:24:00.000-07:00

Well, not quite. Unless you ride solo (which may be easier in some respects but usually less meaningful), the person you ride with counts for a great deal.

A great motorcycle ride requires fellow riders with some, and preferably all, of certain traits; shared values, common desires/expectations, the ability to lead and follow, the humility to admit error yet the confidence to chart a course and stick with it. I have ridden with some great men, guys who have displayed grace and generosity beyond recounting. These men have made journeying a treasure of shared experiences and sights. But, more importantly, we have shared our hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations, as well as laughter and even tears. In summary, these men shared their hearts with me, and I am enriched as a result. It is indeed a rare gift that I will cherish.

The first part of my recent adventure was shared by some great friends, two of whom, Ben and Steve, are veterans of prior trips and one, Ralph, did remarkably well on this his first real long ride. All were amazingly compatible and enjoyable. But over the last week only two riders remained. I had the privilege of sharing the road, different hotel rooms and every meal with a friend who made those final days of this trip indescribably memorable and enjoyable.

Jim is an unusual man. I mean that in a positive sense. Let me try and describe him. He is completely committed to his faith. Not a single meal goes by without expressing his thankfulness for the food we will share and the many ways we have been blessed. The love of his life, and his best friend, has remained married to him for more than 30 years. He never speaks of her in anything but glowing terms, even when just with the guys. He earnestly seeks to be the best father and grandfather that he can be, recognizing that the role is not always a popularity contest you can win. He is a successful businessman with impeccable integrity. He will not sacrifice his principles for profit, nor will he sacrifice profit for personal ease. He is humbled by his success, and maintains a modest lifestyle, preferring extraordinary generosity.

But what makes Jim unique is his love of "just riding". Every morning he would say, “Isn’t it a great day? And we get to ride again!” Whether the day’s ride is 100 miles or 1000 miles, Jim is overjoyed by the pleasure of it. Smiling, both hands in the air in exaltation, his enthusiasm and exuberance are infectious. It is impossible to ride near Jim without absolutely knowing that this is an opportunity to celebrate living.

We all need a Jim or two in our lives. We all need those who travel with us, companions who share the adventure, come what may. One’s world can easily shrink when adversity strikes. Sometimes those who enjoy the spectacular heights and the sunny days, do not necessarily join in for a friend's slide to the darkened depths. Jim would. And he would still be there when the ride is a harrowing, relentless nightmare of ever deepening shadows shouting, “Let’s ride”.

The Anatomy of a Corner

2011-07-03T17:41:00.000-07:00

Life at its best is never a straight road. Lived to its full potential, it is an adventure filled with corners, some difficult, some sharp, some long and some deceptive and dangerous. In my experience, it is like riding a motorcycle; each corner can be a rainbow of experiences. Let me share a 30 second verbal video.

Imagine one sunny afternoon you are riding your motorcycle beside a small but fast-flowing river along a smooth-surfaced two-lane highway. You are heading up hill into some low-lying mountains. There are no vehicles near you. Keeping your speed down to the posted limit of 65 mph is difficult. The powerful motor hums beneath your knees. Reined in by cruise control your highway stallion impatiently urges you to give rein to its mechanical muscles. Giving in to its yearning you grasp the throttle tighter and twist it counterclockwise to accelerate. Then you see it, the corner approaching some 200 yards away. Your heart starts beating faster and your senses come alive.

With the visual accuracy of an eagle spotting its prey from far away, you see that the road ahead narrows and swerves right. The river, rushing downhill in a somersaulting panic on one side seems to squeeze the ribbon of asphalt against a sheer rock face driven into the sky by some prehistoric shrug. Instantly you survey everything at once. Your body becomes a receptor of incredible capacity, simultaneously collecting and sending masses of sensory data to your brain. You drop your feet from resting on the highway pegs and place them firmly on the foot pegs under your hips for maximum balance. Your knees, now bent to 90 degrees, press in on the gas tank. A mental checklist of your bike's condition follows your question, "Is my bike ready?"

At 100 yards away the anticipated road sign reads: 45 mph. To an experienced biker that means it is safe under good conditions to make the corner at 65 mph. You do a mental, physical and emotional check first and ask yourself, "Am I up for this?" This is followed in split-second sequence by a scan of the road ahead: the arc and incline of the corner, absence of guardrails, the pavement free of gravel, tar strips, fallen rock, fresh oil or water, and no vehicles anywhere within your peripheral vision. Based on that feedback, you mentally calibrate your safe cornering speed and listen for the engine to match the desired speed. That speed is felt rather than calculated by looking at the speedometer.

Mentally you draw an arching line around the corner with laser-like precision; ideally it runs parallel to the centerline of highway. If all goes well, this trajectory will take you and your motorcycle through the curve and safely out the other side. You lean forward slightly, gripping the throttle firmly, leaving one finger extended over top of the front brake lever as a precaution. Now you anticipate the most critical element to make it through the corner; the lean of the bike. A motorcycle is not steered through a corner, it swoops around it like a plane. In fact, you are pushing down and left on the handlebar, effectively steering away from the right turn direction you would naturally want to go. This is necessary to bring the bike into balance between the opposing forces at play; gravity and centrifugal force. Leaning too far towards the corner or going too slow will result in being pulled into the rock face by gravity. Not leaning enough toward the corner or going too fast can push you off the chosen line into oncoming traffic or, worse, into the river.

Halfway around the corner you are at the point of no return. Whatever may lay ahead in your path may well be unavoidable: a football-sized rock, loose gravel sprayed onto the road from the shoulder, a stalled vehicle or a deer that insists on bounding in front of your speeding motorcycle are just a few of the possibilities. This corner, like every other one, demands hypersensitivity and must occupy 100% of your focused attention. Despite the potential perils, you accelerate slightly as you round the corner to maintain equilibrium between the changing forces at play. This has the effect of catapulting you forward like the last person hurled from a whirling line of skaters or a stone being flung from a sling. Your body feels fully alive as it tingles with exhilaration, as if the last 30 seconds is what you were made for.

Maybe we are made for corners. To some extent, around each bend in the road lies a mystery, a story yet to unfold. It is the corners of one's life that will fill the pages of one's biography. How well do we anticipate and prepare for each turn, deal with the stresses of each curve and, sometimes, just hang on around life's corners?

While Parkinson's disease is not a "corner" I would have chosen, there is a counterintuitive sense of significance to this bend in my life's highway. It is my hope that others facing PD, or other difficulties, will join me in declaring, "Let those corners keep coming!"

Water: the Stuff We Take for Granted

2011-06-30T21:54:00.000-07:00

I began to notice as we rode into the agricultural areas of Utah that there were a variety of mechanisms being used to get the water from rivers and other sources to the parched land that needed it so desperately. After seeing a few sites in downtown Salt Lake City we headed north and I began to compare the ways to get water to the land.

When I was a bare-foot, blond-haired farm kid of 5, the gravity fed irrigation flumes that watered the family farm apple orchard were my personal domain; pretend powerful rivers that could carry a flotilla of stick “ships” and an armada of other things that could float. Since few people have ever heard of flumes, let me explain. Flumes are thin galvanized tin half-pipes that carry water to ditches traversing each row of trees, and then flowing into smaller ditches to each tree. I “helped” my Grandpa keep the ditches from clogging or flooding, or at least that was my job when I was not playing in the water somewhere in the system. At the time, in 1957, most of our neighbours watered their crops the same primitive way.

A few years later, in the early 60s, those same apple trees, which never yielded more than a subsistence living, were being watered by a sprinkler system comprised of 20-foot (7 meter) lengths of 2 inch (5 cm) aluminum pipe fitted with horizontal standpipes on one end of the pipe that hoisted the sprinkler head higher than the surrounding orchard grass. My brother, Doug, and I often traded off changing the sprinklers after each summer supper. We did this chore complainingly (as we did most chores we were assigned). Sloshing about in our knee-high “gum boots” between the trees to ensure that when the pressure valve holding back the water was released the line of pipes held. Sometimes the catch mechanism holding the pipes together would not have been secured properly and water would shoot everywhere requiring someone to run in the sloppy boots to turn off the water so that the breach could be resecured. Many times I was soaked when I tried to jam the pipes together without shutting the water source off.

The memory of that cold shower reminded me of my Dad spraying the trees with the pressurized DDT in a sprayer being hauled behind the tractor. There were times when we could not see each other through the green fog descending all around us. There is little guessing about what environmental “trigger” fired my genetically loaded “gun” resulting in my Parkinson’s disease 40 years later.

Today we rode our motorcycles the 325 miles (525 km) between Nephi, Utah, and Jerome, Idaho, mostly on Interstate Freeways 15 and 83. But we also chose to ride the rural Highway 30. While the freeways offered panoramic views of dusty dry brown colors, Highway 30 offered field-upon-field of fresh-smelling green, dozens of shades of green. I found the variegated patchwork of green visually intoxicating as the tall-stemmed crops bent in the wind so as to look like waves on a gusty foreign sea. Rather than flumes or sprinkler pipes (although there were still some of those), we saw circle-making elevated sprinkler systems moving on 5-foot wheels and water guns the size of Howitzers firing away at the driest sections of land. Green really is a wonderfully refreshing color.

Water, what a wonder. Free (except for the bottled kind), yet precious. Its presence turns a desert to the delicious. It refreshes my spirit and body, as well as sparking memories of my childhood summer days in the orchards.

Where Did All the Westerns Go?

2011-06-29T00:33:00.000-07:00

It was like returning to the Saturday matinee movies and the Western TV shows I watched when I was young. It was the 1960s with movies like “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” with Clint Eastwood, and “The Magnificent Seven” starring more big names than you could afford today. There were TV series such as “Gunsmoke” and “The Wild, Wild West”. As a kid I had been completely mezmerized by their simple plots and black-and-white characters (literally, as we did not get color television until much later). I had always wondered where this rugged but colorful land was to be found. It seemed imaginary to me.

Today, I discovered the wild west terrain that I had once found so harsh and yet attractive. It started with Kanab, Utah, “Little Hollywood” as it was once called, a town I had never heard of before we stopped last night at the “Four Seasons” motel (unlikely to be confused with the more famous hotel chain of that name). Wandering up its main street this morning to find the recommended local breakfast hangout, we discovered plaques near the sidewalk every so often with the name, likeness and short bio of some movie or TV star that had been in town shooting one of a steady string of Westerns filmed there. These ‘shoots’ included everything from the original “Lone Ranger” TV series (1952) all the way to “The Apple Dumpling Gang” (1969) and dozens of others. The red-stained bluffs and sagebrush gulches near town were perfect for this now almost lost genre of films and television. But my imaginary return to the showdown sagas and dramatic, guns blazing, chase scenes on horseback did not end there.

North a few miles was Bryce Canyon, a geographic marvel that is more than just a miniature Grand Canyon. It is unique in its delicate spires and natural bridges and wind-carved passages. Breathtaking, it could not be described adequately in words or in any photograph. But even before we entered Bryce Canyon we snaked through Red Canyon, embedded in the walls of which stood silent vermillion-colored warriors, waiting to swoop down on unsuspecting travelers, as did the areas Native inhabitants 150 years ago.

After our jaw-dropping visual encounters of the morning, and lunch at Bryce Canyon City, we headed northeast on Highway 12 where the scenery was so varied and fantastic it was hard to remember where we were. There were multi-colored rocky ravines, sheer streaked-red cliffs that hung ominously over our progress along the highway, lush green valleys where water had been diverted to fields of grain or alfalfa and barren mesas that grew only scrub and clumps of dry grass. The riding was some of the best we had encountered. It included sharp-cornered alleyways through rock ravines and knock-down gusts of wind threatening to push us off ridge-top roads. There were no guardrails, or anything else, between a slip on a shiny tar strip and becoming embedded in the rocks a thousand feet below.

Daydreaming is not encouraged when riding motorcycles, especially if the biker has Parkinson’s disease. But images of my Western heroes crept into my mental spaces, forcing out the Knight of the Open Road imagery. My Big Blue was now a lightning-fast Palomino pony as we pursued a fugitive from justice through rock-rimmed ravines. Unfortunately, free-range cattle were, and apparently still are, a part of reality to be taken seriously. Whether due to old-fashioned stampede or a simple bovine miscalculation of the speed of highway motorcycles, mishaps did, and still do, occur.

Regardless, the day was a glorious modern equivalent to the Western adventures I enjoyed so much 50 years ago. I have now taken in 430 miles (515 kms) of the Wild West and will not soon forget its beauty.

Grand

2011-06-28T00:32:00.000-07:00

Grandfather, grand slam, grand prize and even grand adventure are terms of significance and even respect. But “grand” is too weak an adjective, woefully insufficient to describe the panoramic, majestic grandeur of the Grand Canyon that I saw for the first time today. In fact, words simply fail to adequately describe this most wondrous of the seven natural wonders of the world. Its 277-mile length, 18-mile width and 1 mile depth are only its physical dimensions, immense though they are. Add the rainbow of colors, the linear artistry, the symphony of raucous but earnest water (the Colorado River) from which grew the silent, charactered cliff walls and it is no wonder the early Native Americans thought this place was holy. I was speechless, captivated by its mystic and marvel, spellbound by its scope and symmetry. The scene’s vast and fierce beauty devoured each photographic attempt to capture its magnificence. I immediately felt inadequate, as if this great gorge had echoed into the chasm of my own insignificance. Intimidated, I still found my stare fixed to the Canyon’s distant floor as if drawn there by a magnetic force.

We arrived there before 10 AM, having enjoyed climbing the somewhat cooler heights north of Flagstaff, Arizona. Plenty of swooping curves and pine forests to enjoy, the ride was reverent and quiet, allowing me to breathe easily while anticipating the awaiting sight. We stayed only an hour, as if to remain longer we would become enraptured fully by its allure. We needed no souvenirs, for the memory of this place will remain indelible, but I did pick up a sunburn, having forgotten that my face and arms had been shielded by helmet and gear until then.
Everything we considered doing next seemed limited as we debated our next destination while sharing a huge “Navajo Taco” at the Outpost near Cameron, Arizona. Deciding that the days of extreme heat could end now without regret, we headed north, by Lee’s Ferry, around the eastern end and northern ridge of the Grand Canyon. The road was challenging in places, but offered plenty of opportunities to view the untamed ruggedness of this land.

We ended the day’s epic experience in the southern Utah town of Kanab. Given that we had heard many languages since coming to the area, including some Londoners who enjoyed being photographed on our bikes, we were not surprised to be seated next to a tour of Australian 18-to-35-year-olds at supper. After the huge meals of ribs, rib eye steak and skewers of shrimp we retired to our humble room where we recounted the day and this last week’s events. We have truly been blessed. For me, I felt a renewal in my commitment that as long as my Parkinson’s disease does not prevent me I will ride with the Knights of the Open Road on the grandest of adventures.

More Than Tired

2011-06-26T23:20:00.000-07:00

Many of the small towns that dot the high plains east of Palm Springs and the deserts of Nevada and Arizona have long since passed their heyday. These lonely roads are lined with dilapidated buildings, most of them boarded up, and create an image that I imagine as being similar to the Dust Bowl of the Dirty 30s. There are shopkeepers with insincere smiles and looks of desperation in their eyes, anxious to make any sale they can, even two bottles of water for thirsty bikers. These are the kinds of communities, if they can still be called that, which we passed through on the secondary roads that we chose to travel today. Of course, there is the mandatory reduced speed through the tiny villages, but this rarely encourages anyone to stop. There is a sense of hopelessness being mixed with the stale, hot desert air hanging over the homes and businesses we pass.

We left Palm Desert at 8:30 AM, the sun already high enough in the sky to have superheated chrome on our freshly washed motorcycles as they waited for another day's adventures. As we headed east towards the Arizona border, we traveled on Interstate 10, taking notice of several virtually unused off-ramps that appeared to empty onto dusty unpaved roads leading nowhere in particular. Turning onto Highway 60, we began to see tired settlements that may have had rich histories, but have no apparent reason for remaining where they are. Places with names like Salome and Wenden.

But as we continued to climb in altitude, we began to breathe easier as the temperature dropped to 34°C (88 degrees Fahrenheit) for the first time today. Farms appeared to be utilizing irrigation, and looked like formal green tablecloths in stark comparison to the desolate terrain that surrounded them. There seem to be two types of towns here. The small ones, haphazardly hanging on to some reason to exist, and the medium-sized and larger ones that, despite numerous signs of economic hardship, seem to be making a go of it. But my perspective for the day was about to be shaken on a couple of fronts.

Jim knew of an excellent motorcycle road, Highway 89A, which went up from the Prescott Valley, across Mingus Mountain to Sedona, the upscale artsy Mecca of Arizona. We took what some say is the best motorcycle road in Arizona with eagerness, having spent much of the last several days in the desert landscapes with little in the way of exhilarating motorcycle riding. One of my favorite rides ever, with many, many corners ranging from 10 mph to 35 mph (89A has 158 curves in the space of 12 miles). Surprisingly, there was very little traffic and superb road surface conditions, which allowed the two of us to push our bikes just a little harder than normal (foot pegs may show a little more wear). We were ecstatic.

But Jim had not prepared me for the town of Jerome, found partway along Highway 89A. Once a bustling copper mining city with a population of 15,000 people, the community had been built on site, "a mile high" up Mingus Mountain, with stunning views. But it shrank to less than 50 people in the 1950s after the copper ran out. Somehow in the 1970s, by utilizing the town’s unique location, Jerome's town council rejuvenated the dying community, turning it into a thriving destination vacation and day trip center that today was filled with visitors climbing up and down the steep streets to explore the heritage buildings and shops. Just seeing it flourish was encouraging after the bleak pictures of the small suffering desert towns we had passed through.

Napping on Prescott AZ Square During Pioneer Days Celebration

Arriving in Flagstaff, Arizona, at about 5 PM, we were exhausted. Too little sleep last night, too much heat today, the demanding Mingus Mountain ride, and making more miles than we were used to (620 km or 400) all probably contributed to the fatigue we felt. For me, as someone with Parkinson's disease, fatigue is always a factor on these trips, requiring naps whenever I can get them. When I get tired I lose not only some physical control over the tremor caused by the disease, but can also lose some of my perspective, and sometimes, momentarily, even hope. Just being tired can have devastating consequences. But tonight I am encouraged by hand thankful for places like Jerome, which used its unique location, circumstances and history to come back from the brink of giving up. It is a strategy I will consider implementing in the constant battle with my PD.

Lessons Learned from Sand and Sagebrush

2011-06-26T00:40:00.000-07:00

The distance from Lake Havasu City to Palm Desert where we are staying for the night was not a long one, less than 200 miles, even with a jaunt into Joshua Tree National Park. But it was soul-scorchingly hot, making it seem much longer. With several stops (fearing a repeat of the ‘out-of-gas’ sagas), and even with the mostly straight, virtually deserted highway, it took 5 hours, enough time to ponder the significance of the desert.

With my head wedged within the confines of my full-face helmet, I traveled today almost entirely through deserts populated by sand and sagebrush. The paradox was obvious: watching wide-open wasteland from inside the small space of the "bubble" around my head. It all seemed surreal, as if I were exploring a moonscape from inside a space suit. In fact, the three of us probably looked like lost astronauts dressed from head-to-toe in black protective gear terribly ill-suited to the 110 F temperatures.

Anyone who rides a motorcycle for any distance recognizes that there is an abundance of what I have labeled, "helmet time". That is, when straight roads and traffic conditions allow, one is left alone with one's own thoughts. These thoughts can either pester you, like an incessant itching that cannot be scratched, or spark random ideas that ricochet meaninglessly around in your head and ultimately lead nowhere. At my best, I have learned to cherish these times as if sacred. At my worst I have strangled the experience, as it can be both frighteningly freeing and cruelly convicting. There are no artificial constraints to limit my mental/emotional processes. I am forced to come face-to-face with myself as I really am. Occupied only by the white noise of wind rushing past my visor, I am usually tempted to fill the space with music or distraction of any kind. Today was one of those times, but there were no nearby radio stations and I had not set up my IPod. It became a time to learn lessons from the sand and sagebrush that surrounded me mile after mile.
Deserts represent extraordinary potential. They are missing one thing; water. Water could come from a variety of sources: the nearby Colorado River; precipitation or from under the ground. But it is a part of land that has, in fact, been deserted. We are all like a desert. We have unrealized potential, but we are missing one thing. What it is may differ for each of us, but we must humbly rely on sources outside ourselves to supply the “water”.

Riding with some great friends over the past 8 days I have realized that they have been water to me, quenching my thirst from time-to-time when I needed it most. As of tomorrow, Sunday, after riding more than 5000 kms (3200 miles), Ralph will fly back to Toronto and our group will shrink to two for the next 8 days. Jim and I will be sad to see him go, but there have been some tremendous oasis experiences already, with more to follow I am sure. At least there was water to wash our bikes.

The adventuresome journey of the Knights of the Open Road will continue, with more mountains, canyons, forests and even deserts to come. We get to ride on, at least for awhile.

Striving for Relevance

2011-06-25T00:45:00.000-07:00

In their day, they were all viewed as marvels of modern engineering, feats of human genius that had become icons of society.

By the time we left our Las Vegas hotel the temperature was well into the 80s and climbing. The familiar hot wind immediately dried our eyes as we rode east to Boulder City. After a quick breakfast and a little playful photo opportunity with a local street sculpture, we climbed back into our already sweat-soaked motorcycle gear and headed for the Hoover dam. Straddling the Arizona/Nevada border, this 1935 monolithic structure is imposing even by today's standards. We were left to imagine how this depression era work program actually accomplished the construction of the largest concrete structure in the world at that time, 2 years earlier than expected and under budget. It still provides a significant amount of electricity, while at the same time protecting downriver land against flooding as well as providing irrigation, all part of its original purpose.

High above the dam arches the new Tillman Bridge (named in honor of the football player turned soldier who was killed by friendly fire in Iraq). Until its completion in 2010, traffic on Highway 93 had been seriously constrained due to post-9/11 security concerns, as well as the road width that traversed the top of the narrow dam. At 840 feet (360 m), the bridge is the second highest in the United States, and the longest concrete bridge in the Western Hemisphere. While it claimed only one death during its construction, as opposed to over 100 deaths, during the construction of Hoover dam, this bridge was not built on time or on budget.

Temperatures were stretching through the 90s by the time we were on the road again, headed for Oatman, Arizona (population 128), a virtually forgotten town with its Main Street straddling a portion of the famous Route 66. The odd, somewhat disjointed, Gold Rush theme town was as curious as the well-behaved burros that roamed its streets without much regard for cars or human occupants. We had an early lunch, comprised mostly of guzzling down glasses of ice tea to quench our thirst, at the oldest (1902) building in town, the Oatman Hotel, where Clark Gable and Carole Lombard spent their honeymoon in 1939.

Leaving the tiny town, with its desperate desire to hang on to its past importance and the tourists it could attract, we ventured out onto what was known as the most treacherous portion of Route 66. This Highway was the main transportation route between Chicago and Los Angeles in the 1930s and 1940s, as well as the subject of numerous famous folk ballads and a 1960s TV show by the same name. I remember watching it with fascination as Martin Milner and George Maharis drove their Corvette over that famous road experiencing innumerable adventures. The 10-mile an hour hairpin corners gave credence to the road’s early reputation. The patched pavement, very steep grades and lack of any guardrails reflect nothing of the modern highways to which we had become so accustomed.

Ironically, our day ended much as it had begun, with a dam and the bridge. By late afternoon we were exhausted from the heat and decided not to go further, having stopped to enjoy the ritual of a burger at "In-N-Out Burger" in Lake Havasu City. This town was largely developed in the 1970s due to the construction of the Parker dam, and later made famous by the reconstruction of the original London Bridge, imported piece by piece from its original location to Arizona in the 1980s. While we did not visit the dam, the bridge seemed to have lost much of its appeal in the translation, although it is the second most popular tourist attraction in the state.

During the mind-numbing 75 mile an hour, 114°F portions of laser-straight desert highway I found myself thinking about relevance. Each of the historical sites we took in seemed to be clutching at their own relevance. London Bridge has become a displaced orphan, serving the tourist trade but without any practical purpose. Route 66 has long since been "declassified" as a highway and struggles to maintain even a semblance of its former glory. Of these three, only the Hoover dam remains critically relevant. How many man-made objects, created long before I drew breath, can be placed in that category? And what about my life? Is it even relevant today? Or will it even be a footnote in some historical reference? Can I hope to leave a legacy that is relevant long after I am gone? Maybe this is too much thinking for a Parkinson's diseased brain crammed into a confining helmet for too many hours in the hot sun.

Out Of Gas

2011-06-24T00:21:00.000-07:00

Through the shimmering heat of the late morning stood the sun-baked buildings of Death Valley Junction. It was to have been our next refueling stop on our way heading east out of the dramatic scenery and high priced gas of the desert. There were only 3 of us now, with the remainder having cut north on their way back home. Ralph was a mile short of our proposed stop when his Harley-Davidson Springer had drained its reserve gasoline tank and stalled on the shoulder of Highway 190. Leaving Ralph and his immobilized machine on the side of the road, Jim and I drove into the Junction in search of a gas station. There was none. In fact, there appeared to be little in the way of life at all, with a somewhat ramshackled motel and an even more dilapidated café being the only businesses that appeared open. The next available fuel was almost 30 miles away. But after some persistent pleading, we were loaned a small siphon hose. In short order we used it to drain gas from my tank into an empty water bottle and then into Ralph's motorcycle. "More than enough to get us 30 miles", we thought.

Before going on, we wheeled back into Death Valley Junction to return the hose to its owner, who appeared to be spending the morning talking to several other locals at the café. While we were anxious to press on, having already completed a whirlwind tour of several wonders of Death Valley (the Sand Dunes, Artists Palette, Devil's Golf Course and the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere, Badwater), we were also very thirsty. Anything cold to drink would have been sufficient, however, the portly young lady who served us proudly announced that she had just made a fresh batch of lemonade. It proved to be delicious as we each guzzled 4 or 5 large classes, after which we decided to have an early lunch there as well. For a town that appeared to have run out of gas, literally and figuratively, it continued to evidence a small spark of potential, as if surviving on hope through an unknown siphon hose.

Jim siphoning gas

The heat, gusting winds and higher than normal speed seemed to consume more fuel than we had expected. Only 20 miles up the road I looked back and noticed Ralph fading into the distance and then stopping. He was out of gas again due to our inaccurate estimate the first time. We were now almost 10 miles short of Pahrump, Nevada, the nearest gas station. Again, Ralph was left with his stricken bike by the side of the road in the 100° F (38°C) plus temperatures, while Jim and I went to find fuel and a Jerry can to carry it.

We arrived mid-afternoon in Las Vegas, a mere 200 miles (300 km) for the day. Exhausted, scruffy with several days’ beard growth and our clothes sweat completely through, we looked entirely out of place. Only after some effort did we convince the young woman behind the desk to let us check into the Silverton Hotel and Casino. Our main reason for coming to this gambling Mecca was not to put coins in a slot machine, but rather to buy a replacement for the bald rear tire on Ralph's bike. Heat and highway speeds tend to almost melt motorcycle tires and there is nothing more critical than the rubber that grips the road on each corner taken.

At the end of the day we shared a fine, inexpensive, prime rib dinner, and spoke about times in life when we had "run out of gas". These were times when we did not have the natural resources to go further so needed to help of others; friends or family from whose gas tank we could siphon a little precious fuel to make it further along the journey. Without them we would have been left in some figurative desert alone.

The Heat

2011-06-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

4 PM and it was 120 F (48 C). And that was in the shade, of which there is precious little in Stovepipe Wells, Death Valley, California. With the wind blowing hard off the desolate terrain that surrounded us it felt like a furnace door had been left open. It was almost painful, leaving my lips parched, tasting only droplets of sweat as they slid down my face. Stopping our decent into the desert just to get a bottle of water to rehydrate our sweat-soaked bodies I returned to my motorcycle to find it too hot to touch without gloves. I suddenly had no difficulty believing in spontaneous combustion and frying eggs on the hood of a car.

Our bodies were in shock, having climbed to the height of Yosemite’s passes at 10,000 feet above sea level, where the recently snowbound road had only been made passable last week, to the inferno the second lowest spot on the earth’s surface. In the space of 3 hours we had experienced both speeding past snow banks where it was 40 degrees (6 C) and screaming over a wasteland and through the hottest temperatures any of us had known. The juxtaposition of scraping at the very door of the heavens one minute and descending to the brink of hell’s fires the next left us staggering and wrung out. The day’s ride had stretched us in ways we had not imagined.

The landscape’s diversity was also evident in the people we met. The mountains of Yosemite and their magnificent waterfalls had introduced us to a local reporter who interviewed Jim on what had caused him to come to the park while we all posed for his photographer to snap a group photo. The deserts of Death Valley had us cross paths with a solo biker riding around America on his Honda Fury loaded down with camping supplies. Nick sported a shaved head under which had sprouted a scruffy mid-length beard. Although he was obviously anxious to talk, after I asked him about his motorcycle, he was slow to smile. I soon guessed his motivation was to avoid drawing attention to his solitary tooth that stood stark, stained and lonely as its owner. He spoke with a drawl and looked every bit a pirate, although more friendly than fierce. His eyes spoke of a human hard luck story that I would never hear, but I was enriched by the few words he shared.
The day, like life sometimes, demanded adaptation to vastly varied circumstances as well as accommodation of amazingly diverse personalities. My journey, both in life and today, has never been monochrome but rather a kaleidoscope, never a simple piper’s tune but a complex symphony of fury and finesse, sometimes lush as an alpine forest wringing the sustenance from melting snow and sometimes arid and bleak as a barren wilderness struggling to stay alive.

Like Jim says, “It is all good. We can enjoy and learn from each landscape we find.” If I allow it, each scene and character I encounter can be an etching on my soul.

When the Pavement Ends

2011-06-22T00:41:00.000-07:00

We stood in the shade of a Cottonwood tree at the point where the road we had taken off the main highway ended, at least the pavement part of it. We were en route to Arnold, California, having enjoyed a late morning coffee break at a small town with the auspicious name of West Point (adjacent to a town inauspiciously named town, "Bummerville"). For sleek and powerful machines like the touring motorcycles we were riding, anything less than smooth asphalt is usually avoided at all costs. But here we were. The way forward was not paved, but consisted of an uncertain distance of loose gravel. After our multiple experiences with backtracking due to snow, we were not predisposed to giving up without at least trying.

The name of the way ahead was Summit Level Road, apparently a distance of some 8 miles away from our proposed lunch stop at Arnold. The time was just after noon, and the searing sun is at its highest in a cloudless sky. No one suggested that we give up so we pressed our bikes forward onto the unfamiliar surface. Traction was difficult at times due to the lack of any appropriate tread on the smooth road tires. Turning proved challenging as every attempt to steer in any direction but straight ahead was greeted with an immediate loss of balance that threatened verticality. Stopping was unthinkable, except very, very slowly, which is not usually the way one stops a motorcycle. The road seems to be more like a farmer’s tractor path over fields and through the woods, with very steep grades and unbanked, hairpin corners, in most places just wide enough to accommodate a single vehicle.

Progress was slow at a pace of no more than about 5 mph (8 km/h). Gravel turned intermittently into rutted red clay, then back again to a variety of loose surface material. If careening around sharp highway corners on a motorcycle demands focused attention, riding on this terrain proved doubly stressful and demanding. Approximately an hour went by when I encountered a grader scraping the red clay road surface, apparently to remove the murderous ruts and even out the cursed gravel. The operator noticed me with some amazement and motioned me by his wide blade, having left me only a few feet of road to do so. I was tempted to stop and motion him to make his way by me, but thought better of it given the vast difference in the size of our respective "machines". Instead, I stopped adjacent to him and asked about the condition of the road ahead. His response was not encouraging. "It will be difficult for that bike of yours. It gets worse up ahead. It will take you quite a while". My reaction was to get directions to the closest pavement, to which he responded by reeling off a string of street names (which I later determined may have been accurate but were rarely displayed in any easily visible way).

Of course, we did make it to Arnold. It took 2 hours in 100 degree Fahrenheit (36 C) heat. "Lunch" was replaced with a milkshake as we discussed revision of the day's expectations. The 8-mile journey overshadowed the exhilarating morning spent experiencing the curves of Highway 88 and we were all exhausted from the "off road" ordeal. We traveled another 30 miles to Sonora, California, anxious to call it a day after covering less than 200 miles.

In some ways, being diagnosed with Parkinson's diseases is like reaching the end of the pavement. The smooth surface on which my life had traveled had some curves and unexpected occurrences, but it was nothing like I was to face on the rougher road ahead. At times I felt ill-prepared, afraid and doubtful about my ability to make the necessary transition. Since then I have learned, and continue to learn, that when you reach the end of the pavement in life there is plenty of adventure left on the road ahead. But it will take faith, hope and determination. There will be times when one is tempted to turn back, mourning the loss of ability to travel on even surfaces at high speeds without a seeming care in the world. But if one is to reach any desired destination, one must go forward on the road we encounter. And in the end, when I look back on this journey, both today's motorcycle trip and in life, I will remember and recite for others the stories of what lay beyond the end of the pavement.

Challenge

2011-06-21T00:35:00.000-07:00

Up at 5:30 AM to prepare for an early morning conference call, it was an earlier day than usual. But by shortly after 8 AM we were off in pursuit of some of the best twisty rides the Northern California could offer a few Canadian motorcycle enthusiasts. We were not sure how we could beat yesterday's ride down the Feather River Highway 70, but we were determined to try. Swooping along the shore of Lake Oroville we had to concentrate on the road rather than gawk at the proliferation of summer houseboats with their occupants getting ready for a day of water sports. But that was just introduction to the day of peg-grinding rides. We were headed towards Grizzly Summit at the top of Highway 119. But after 45 minutes riding around some of the tightest curves roads so far, we were again blocked by snow before we hit the summit. With temperatures reaching 100 today a few miles away, it was hard to believe that the California mountains still had snow blocking a number of passes normally traveled by tourists this time of year.

One challenge literally led to another. Backtracking off the snowbound summit, and then being detoured along the western foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains, we anticipated getting over the pass on Highway 120. But smarter this time, we asked a local old-timer from Forbestown whether the road was clear of snow. He advised us that many of the passes were never cleared by snowplows. It is just allowed to melt at its own pace, presumably because it cost the economically strapped California government less. But our mountain "guide" was certain that the pass on Highway 49 was clear, having just gone that way recently himself. Listening carefully to his instructions, a short distance up the road we passed through the town of Challenge, which seemed at the time both fitting for the struggling village, as well as for a few bikers searching for the snow-free way across the mountains.

The newly chosen route proved to be almost perfect. Apart from a few miles where some sadistic civil servant who hated motorcyclists had spread loose sand along the road surface to cover tar strips, the trip was heart pounding. Even the split-second glimpses of awesome sheer cliffs, cascading waterfalls and distant snowcapped mountains pointing into blue skies could not draw us away from the exhilaration of bearing down on each corner as it came. It felt as if we were cutting into the asphalt as we thrust ourselves and our machines into each curve, "driving our bikes, not just riding them", as one of our number stated. We were like the river beside us, arching and twisting around rock faces and boulders, digging into the riverbed and leaving its mark as it plunged down from the 6700-foot-high pinnacle to its destination. Exciting is too limited a word to describe this part of the journey. At the end of the 70-mile slalom course along the North Yuba River Highway 49, Jim remarked that it was probably the best riding he had ever experienced.

And like that river, we too found our destination and place of rest at Lake Tahoe. Although we only traveled 250 miles (400 km), we were exhausted from the physically and mentally challenging day, but the Knights of the Open Road all wore telltale grins on their windburn faces. It had been the best day so far, a day when my Parkinson's disease was but a faint irritation, a mere inconvenience.

Motorcycles Do Not Work Well in the Snow, Even on Father's Day

2011-06-19T23:03:00.000-07:00

It was shortly after 9 AM and the temperature began falling as we climbed higher up what seemed to be a deserted mountain highway between Macdeol, California, and Highway 89. Suddenly, as we came around a bend in the road, the snow lay in our path as if strewn there on purpose. There had been no signs to indicate the road was closed despite the fact that the snow had obviously drifted across the roadway some time ago. It had not been cleared, perhaps because of some slashed budget, nor yet melted in the mid-June sunshine, a clear indication of the lateness of summer this year. Despite considering it for a few moments, getting through even the first drift would prove extraordinarily difficult. Hiking up the road further it became obvious that any attempt to go further would be foolhardy as the drifts increased in-depth to well over 2 feet. Touring motorcycles do not work well in the snow so we would just have to turn around and retrace our steps by 30 miles to the main highway and head further south. This seemed to be the opposite of the Father's Day present we had wanted. Jim quickly reminded us that we had nothing to complain about. We all agreed.

But before we could turn around and leave two cars drove up behind us. Several Mexican men and women got out to survey what we knew to be an impassable barrier. However, due to a barrier of a different kind, (they spoke very little English) Jim (who spoke even less Spanish) was unable to convince them that attempting to get through would be ill fated. They got back in their vehicles and one of them took a run at getting through the first snowdrift. The inevitable result was captured on video. He just managed to get his front wheel drive tires buried up to the axles. No chains or rope were available to tow the stuck car out of the snow, but the driver pulled out a set of jumper cables. We watched with astonishment and recognized that this fellow had obviously never before been stuck in the snow. After considerable effort we were able to get the car out of the snow, whereupon the vehicles turned around and headed back the way we knew we would have to go as well.

Our day had started sunny and warm, which was only appropriate given that we had crossed the Oregon border into California earlier this morning. But twice today our intentions to enjoy several of the windy mountain roads near Mount Shasta were thwarted. Alas, motorcycle journeys, like life, rarely turn out exactly as planned. We have to be able to adapt, to accept disappointment and move on. There is a reason. My experience with Parkinson's disease assures me of that.

We ended up getting a panoramic view of Mount Shasta and a spectacular shot of our bikes in the foreground. We also saw a lot more of Northern California countryside than we had expected.

If things had not exactly turned out as we had planned in the beginning of the day, the last portion of the ride from Greenville to Oroville along the Feather River Canyon was extraordinary. This particular stretch of highway is rated the third best motorcycle road in northern California. It definitely lives up to its billing. The road swooped down along the cool river’s edge for long stretches, the asphalt endlessly punctuated by 35 and 40 mph corners and numerous narrow bridges before scaling the canyon wall into the blazing sun and nearly hundred degree temperatures. The highway seemed like more of a roller coaster than a Route 70. It was magical.

It was almost 6 PM when we arrived Oroville, about 375 miles or 600 kms (with some backtracking) further along on our journey. The day had been a kaleidoscope of experiences; from deflating to accelerating, intense to exhausting, but in the final analysis it was a great Father's Day.

Rain, Drain and Glide

2011-06-18T22:44:00.000-07:00

Almost Home. No, we have not turned around due to some trip-ending mishap. "Almost Home" is the name of the restaurant in Salem, Oregon, where we ate supper last night. Having enjoyed down home, friendly service and substantial servings of mostly home cooking, we decided we could not go wrong if we had breakfast there this morning. We were not disappointed, and had our fill before hitting the road at about 8:30 AM.

The unfortunate part was that by the time we left it was spitting rain resulting in everyone getting bundled into raingear. From bright orange Helly Hansen to the muted tones of Harley-Davidson slickers, the impermeable layer kept the rain out but the moisture in, leaving us feeling "moist" in any event.

Fleeing down the I-5 freeway we sought sunnier conditions to the south. As we passed through the small town of "Drain", I thought, "how appropriate". While the precipitation played with my emotion for the first part of the morning, it did have the good sense to allow us a time of respite to dry off during our gas stop/coffee break in Roseburg, Oregon. Everyone ordered "Dutch Bros." quadruple shot Americano coffees, perhaps hoping to add some animation to the otherwise gray day. While waiting for the espresso machine to make the seemingly endless number of shots required, we were "entertained" by one of the locals at the nearby service station where we had just gassed up. He provided a live demonstration of some his colorful, but limited, vocabulary that seemed somewhat unsuited to the offense he had suffered (the gas jockey could not seem to get his vehicle fully fueled). However, the combination of laughing at the scene that played out, downing a large cup of hot coffee into a cold bladder and wearing layers of raingear and motorcycle outerwear meant that the mandatory last-minute "pit stop" became a longer than usual challenge, especially if one was in a hurry.

Turning east on Highway 138 we began to climb into the cloud cover, which obligingly opened for us, greeting us with more and heavier rain. It is not rain itself that causes problems for motorcycles, but the wetness of the road. A biker's thoughts while traveling in the rainy conditions are not about how soaked he may be getting, but about the surface of the road he is traveling on. The tar strips that cover the cracks in the road and even the painted centerlines can become very slick (see Steve’s blog for proof). As I slowed down to go through one of the small towns we passed, its name reminded me of the fact that at any given time there is only a very small portion of motorcycle tire gripping for a split second as it travels over the road surface. The name of the town; Glide, Oregon.

After climbing up to snow level at 5925 feet above sea level (our one planned stop, Crater Lake, was snowed in and inaccessible), we descended into Diamond Lake Junction for a late lunch at the only place to be found. Clearly, Arlene was the personality that permeated every part of the place. If a little heavy, she was certainly lighthearted, joking about the fact there were no calorie notations on any of her menu items.

Half an hour up the road, now Highway 97 South, we pulled into Klamath Falls, Oregon, and found a motel that provided a welcome pool and hot tub that took the chill off the rain-soaked day. 450 kms today. As the evening darkness set in, blue skies broke through the clouds foretelling of better weather tomorrow as we enter California.

The Journey Begins

2011-06-17T22:03:00.000-07:00

The instant my eyes popped open this morning I knew there was something wrong. I struggle to find the button on my watch to illuminate the dial, only to discover that it was 5:58 AM. Somehow, I had forgotten to properly set my alarm in the hurry of getting work done late the night before and then packing for the motorcycle trip so as to be ready to leave at 7:30 AM.

But before I could leave on the annual ride there was the matter of the 6 AM conference call! Fortunately, attendance did not require business attire, as the best I could do under the circumstances was a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Scrambling to find the number to dial in to the call, I found I was the last one online, but thankfully only kept others waiting a couple of minutes. Next problem; I did not have the written material in front of me that we were discussing on the call. No problem, I thought, I had the computer up and running and knew it was available there. But for some reason, the Word program would not cooperate, requiring me to remember all of the issues. Fortunately, the meeting went just fine and some resolution was achieved.

By 7:45 AM we were on the road. It was the beginning of the 4th annual Knights of the Open Road ride. Named by some friends we met in Thunder Bay, Ontario, halfway through our trip from British Columbia to Newfoundland in 2008. It stuck. While the Knights had lost Hugh, who left us in 2009 to go on one last great ride, the original nucleus remains the same: Jim, George and me. Others have been welcomed, such as Ben and Steve, in recent years, and Ralph this year. George, unfortunately, found himself unable to go along this year. He will be greatly missed. So there are 5 of us: Jim, Ben, Steve, Ralph and me.

The day started cool and cloudy, although thankfully not threatening rain, but nothing could dampen the enthusiasm for the ride ahead. We are grown men, yet as excited as kids going on their first vacation to Disneyland. We have become good friends who have ridden many miles side-by-side, sharing adversity and adventure, always wondering what is around the next corner. The miles have wound a magic spell around our shared experiences. It is a comfortable camaraderie.

Despite mandatory coffee stops, with the consequential... other… stops, and a short lunch stop with me catching a 10 minute nap on the restaurant lawn, we made it to our first overnight destination, Salem Oregon before 5 PM. 550 km the first day.

But today seemed to dish up its share of mechanical misadventures. My right hearing aid seemed to have developed a mind of its own, often telling me in odd squeaks and crackles that it has decided to join the Canada postal workers on rotating strikes, intermittently refusing to deliver sounds around me to my ear. In addition, my Blackberry decided to go into hibernation, leaving my only network connection cryptically labeled "SOS", hardly an encouraging epithet. Only after half an hour on the phone with my service provider did the message disappear, replaced by those lovely ascending green bars confirming I was not out of touch.

The one frustrating part of the ride today, a repeat of other trips through Seattle and Portland, was a traffic jam that we encountered on I-205. After experiencing the stop-and-go traffic for 30 or 40 minutes, we sighted a rear end accident on the other side of the freeway. While it appeared to be blocking traffic going the other way, the only reason we were stuck in bumper-to-bumper gridlock was because everyone wanted to take a look. Surely a glance would have been enough rather than everyone slowing down to stare, thereby causing a chain reaction of miles and miles of idling vehicles. Why do people do that?

Apart from a little windburn, it proved to be a sunny day and a great ride with no physical difficulties. My Parkinson's disease did not even result in the normal cramping of my right side, which was a welcome exception. Far better to have had a few minor mechanical mishaps than physically painful ones.

Jim, Bob and Ralph

So the adventure has begun again. You are welcome to ride along.

Crushing Defeat. Then What?

2011-06-07T23:56:00.000-07:00

8 to 1. The score was humiliating. These are the league-topping, brimming with talent and depth, destined to win Vancouver Canucks. Soundly beat by the surly and struggling Boston Bruins. Players and fans had expected more. Both were embarrassed. I found myself hanging my head, wondering what went wrong. Past victories seemed distant, forgotten in the glare of the dazzling scoreboard. 8 to 1. Inexplicable. The dreams of caressing the long coveted Stanley Cup were suddenly stained with fear. The trouncing hung like stale cigarette smoke in unventilated room. Losing is indeed a crucible of desperation.

I somehow felt responsible. For I had watched the game despite the fact that it does me no good. It is better for me, and the team, if I stay away from the game altogether. The anxiety producing fast-pace of the playoff series leaves me edgy, tremors intensifying with each hard-hitting check and power-play on the ice.

Adding to that, my Parkinson's disease stiffness, and its accompanying symptoms, had been worse than normal. I had found the effects of PD draining and demoralizing. Rather than watch hockey, even championship hockey, I would have benefited from relaxing and reading a book. But instead of peace and tranquility, I sought out and engaged vicariously in a pitched but ill-fated battle for hockey supremacy. I know, I know, it is just one game. But somehow it felt way too personal, as if I had experienced the loss.

I found myself, as I often do, reflecting on the parallels between life's experiences and my life with Parkinson's disease. Last night’s game was no exception. Try as I might, some days I feel like a failure, overwhelmed by my inability to control the stiffness, the tremors and fatigue that are part of the disease. Fortunately, these days are rare. But, like the Vancouver Canucks’ crushing defeat, just one of them can leave you anxious to escape through the tunnel to a safe and quiet place where you can lick your wounds and rest. But even in sleep I could not rid myself of the battle as it haunted my thoughts like a grizzly that refused to stay in its den.

How does one deal with that sense of overwhelming defeat? How does one shake off a bad day when people stare and wonder about the shaking or stiff movements? What can one do to fight back the fatigue brought on by one's own infirmity? How can one avoid throwing in the towel after trying so hard and failing so miserably?

Perhaps not surprisingly, answers are often found more easily discernible when advising others. So, given that I do not really know much about hockey, what would I say to the Canucks (and indirectly myself) after their disastrous stumble?

1. "Failing is part of learning". You must learn from your mistakes, or you are bound to repeat them.

2. "Remember who you are". You have proven to be successful. You have everything you need to win if you use it. A loss does not make you a loser.

3. "Have faith in your team". No blaming. You cannot improve the performance of someone else, only your own play. Hockey, like life, is a team sport. If you cannot trust those around you then you are almost certain to lose.

4. "Focus on the next game, not the last one". Every game (every day) presents a new opportunity to succeed. Forget the past. It is a ghost. Grasp hold of today with all your determination.

5. "Have courage". Dig deep. Persevere in the face of every adversity. Restrain your anger, vengeance and retribution. They play no part in "winning".

Now, if I could only listen to my own advice at the end of the bad day. I will not be watching the next Canucks game, but I will wait for the results and hope they take my advice.

Go, Canucks, Go!

Just Because

2011-06-04T23:20:00.000-07:00

When is the last time you did something illogical, irresponsible, nonsensical, just because?

It was 6 AM and I lay staring at the ceiling wondering why I was awake so early on a Saturday. Despite being exhausted, I had stayed up late Friday, as I usually did, in celebration of conquering another week. So Saturday was to be my carefully guarded sleep-in morning. But despite my efforts to go back to sleep, peeking through the slats of the bedroom blinds came a glimpse of sunshine and the tempting hint of a blue-skyed day. Like the wink of a stripper, there was a thinly veiled suggestion that, if I paid attention, so much more would be revealed shortly. But recent mornings had often started bright and clear, only to renege on their promise, and I had become skeptical due to the grey days that populated so much of the past "spring" months.

Thoughts of potential activities for the day successively muddled my mind, each one getting mixed up with the ideas just before it. There was the stack of papers, files and binders that begged for attention on my den desk downstairs. Monday to Friday never seems to be enough and the weekend could always be filled with work. Next there was the list of jobs in the yard and around the house that could be done, now that it was dry enough to do them. As always, there seem to be an endless number of errands to do, items to deliver and extracurricular volunteer tasks to be completed. Maybe, I mused hopefully, there would be some way to squeeze in coffee or lunch with friends? And then the thought came to me, along with a smile.

What if I took the motorcycle on a day-ride? Given that I will be leaving in 10 days with 5 others on our annual motorcycle journey, I had been feeling a little rusty due to getting very few rides over the winter and spring because of the lousy weather. I had floated the idea of a motorcycle ride past Renae the night before, and she seemed totally supportive. Good enough then! Chores, errands and legal work could wait. The sunshine beckoned and I could not resist. I was out of the door wearing my bike gear in a matter of minutes.

The ride started in cool and crisp air, the sun not yet high enough to warm the road that stretched out invitingly ahead of my two wheels. As I thought about the warm day ahead I began daydreaming about growing up in Vernon, and how the hot, dry summer days had lured me many times to Kalamalka Lake to cool off with a swim. Then it came to me. My destination was clear.

No one would know I was coming. What if no one was home? Perhaps I should have done the practical thing and called ahead. But it would have spoiled the surprise. Going to Vernon for lunch with my mother seemed like the perfect thing to do, even if unjustifiable and illogical. No one travels 450 km (300 miles) for lunch, only to turn around and drive the same distance home in time for supper. Crazy? That is what my mother said, but she greeted me with a big smile nonetheless.

One hour for lunch, then fill up Big Blue with gasoline to pacify her almost empty tank, and I was off again, retracing my tracks as if running the morning's movie in reverse. 4 hours, nonstop, the return trip was hot, with large bugs seeming to know every time I lifted the visor of my helmet to insert a Tootsie Pop in my mouth. I swear the "insect bullets" left bruises! Cruising past panorama views of snowcapped mountains standing proudly over newly cut hay laying green in river-laced basins, I was left with a broad grin and a recurring question. "Why do I not do these unpredictable and impetuous things more often?"

Life for someone with Parkinson's disease is often measured, withdrawn, safe and planned. But for me, despite my PD, I need to be more spontaneous. Life, even one challenged by Parkinson's, is more than the discipline of duty and obligation. Neither is it best filled with mindless distraction and frivolity. We all need soul-sustaining serendipity, too. Just because.

Michael J. Fox: Canadian or American?

2011-05-29T22:27:00.000-07:00

At 5'4", Michael J. Fox could be typecast as suffering from "little man"syndrome. Regardless, in recent years the world, and especially we, the people with Parkinson's, have bid up his stock considerably. Now, despite his height, he is proving himself a giant of a man who has handled affliction, notoriety and some political mudslinging with determination, humor and equanimity. My favorite Michael J. Fox quote is about what PD does to him.

“On a deeper level, it gives you a real humility, because you have to deal every day with the fact that you compromise, to a certain extent - so then you explore what that compromise is and 'how am I compromised?' And for everything I can't do, I find that there's another ability that's been developed or another avenue that I've gone down."

It is hard for us to imagine having to explain Parkinson's disease to friends or strangers today without having the ability to refer to MJF. I would dare say that, for many, Fox is not just the "poster boy for Parkinson's" but holds the hopes of health and even healing for many in his hands.

Last Friday Michael, the "lapsed Canadian", received the highest civil honor in the country as he was appointed an Officer of the Order of Canada. Of course, this garnered some controversy given that some time ago he took on American citizenship (supposedly to the exclusion of his Canadian birthright). I, for one, am proud of the fact that Michael is Canadian (whoever else may have adopted him). He has not really renounced his Canadian country of origin and upbringing, but rather embraced his country of longtime residence. Who could fault him for that? He is, in my books, a true dual citizen who should not be compelled to choose love for one country over another when there is no need nor benefit to do so. One may love both without being a bigamist. Fox was born in Edmonton, Alberta, and grew up in Chilliwack and Burnaby, British Columbia, as well as North Bay, Ontario. "Being Canadian is intrinsic to who I am," Fox said. Let us leave it at that shall we?

So Canada is celebrating Fox for who he is, not a humorous actor so much as a humanitarian activist. Rather than just recognizing his superb acting abilities, the Order of Canada medal is a reflection of his service to humanity everywhere, millions of whom are living with Parkinson's disease and hoping for a cure. The Michael J. Fox Foundation is the largest nonprofit funder of Parkinson's research in the world. In fact, yesterday his Foundation announced a $50 million matching grant, "...made possible by a leadership gift of $50 million from Sergey Brin and Anne Wojcicki". Of course Brin, as cofounder of Google, can afford this generous gift given that he has an estimated personal net worth of 20 billion bucks, but the fact is, he gave $50 million of it to Michael and no one else.

There have been some suggestions that Fox and his Foundation fund only American-based research. This may be generally true, I am not sure, but can anybody blame him for spending the money in the country where he raised it? There are criticisms that he has gone too fast, been reckless and made mistakes. Better that than going too slow if we are to find the keys that unlock the mystery of PD. Some say that MJF is simply grandstanding, using his disease for his own personal purposes and profile. But in all of this, surely it is the goal and not who gets the glory that matters. And in that context there is no evidence to suggest that Michael J. Fox is designing his own "get well soon" project. Certainly, his interest and motivation for the work of the Foundation is grounded in his personal experience. However, recently he was quoted as saying, “I think self-interest is a great starting point, but I don’t want it to cloud my thinking, and I don’t want the foundation to ever do anything with me in mind. This is a responsibility we have now. I want people with Parkinson’s to wake up knowing that there is someone trying to get this done. We want to be accountable to ourselves. I have this image of bursting a door open and watching people go through it. And then, at some point, putting my own coat on and walking through the door.”

Seriously, Michael J. Fox may simply be a Hollywood personality with Parkinson's, but he has proven what one vertically challenged man can do. He and his Foundation have kidnapped a lazy and lethargic area of research and energized it with urgency. He is deserving of an award. I am glad it is as a Canadian.

Retreat! Retreat!

2011-05-26T00:03:00.000-07:00

There is such a thing as strategic retreat. Military history is filled with battles where retreat, planned strategically rather than simply fearful fleeing, became the pathway to victory. Such is true in life generally, as it is in the battle with Parkinson's disease.

The vintage watercraft, "Lazee Gal", rested at anchor in Bedwell Bay as she had many times before. The water, rhythmically patting the hull, scarcely rocked the guest stateroom starboard lower berth where I awaited the imminent arrival of sleep. It was a soothing and blissful moment away from the busyness and breakneck speed of life; a retreat, an oasis of silence.

It took only an hour at 10 knots for the 62-foot Grenfell-designed boat to bring three of us to this bay. It was more of a narrow inlet than a bay, bounded by steep slopes that made for deep water, the bottom lying more than 50 feet below us. Protected, out of the currents, winds and waves, it was a perfect retreat location for we three long-time friends.

Each time I have spent time aboard this teak-decked beauty I am reminded that she and I are similar in age, she being commissioned in 1953, while I entered the world in 1952. I felt a sort of pride for her, she having weathered her story-filled years so valiantly as she continued to serve others well. I wondered whether I could honestly say the same. She had survived striking a deadhead log or two (once under my careless control of the helm) and remained fully functional, if a little shaky for a short while after. I, on the other hand, run the risk of physically shuddering to the point of being taken out of service. We both tend to need a little more maintenance these days, perform better under gentler seas, and can break down at the most inopportune moments. Yet we both seemed to continue to perform our appointed tasks with determination.

Several times a year, as busy calendars permit, my two committed friends and I escape our meetings and obligations for a day or two. It is not, as you might expect, a male bonding time filled with activities, but rather extended time loaded with dialogue, presenting each of us with the opportunity to take stock of our lives, share the lessons learned, recount our current challenges and disclose those dreams we dare whisper not too loudly. It is time to be accountable, to be encouraged and to experience honesty in the reflection of two “mirrors” that can be trusted.

For me, an acute sense of vulnerability accompanies the day-to-day demands of a degenerative disease that cries out for safe harbor. While the comfort and constancy found with my lifelong companion and wife is certainly the refuge of greatest value, yet it is buttressed, made stronger, by the availability of committed friends who seek to listen and understand. They have permission to prod and pry in order to unmask my fears and failures, but they do so for no other purpose than my own best interests.

After 20 years of experience I am convinced that there is a necessity for retreat, reflection, and recharging the batteries. Whether in luxury or simplicity, it is strategic time to ponder and to plan. For life is a long-distance race, an exhausting battle, and rest, renewal and refreshment are needed if we are to engage the evermore demanding demons that would defeat us.

The Wisdom of a Wounded Healer

2011-05-21T15:56:00.000-07:00

The young skateboarder with the torn jeans and dirty, wrinkled T-shirt, slouched in his chair. He looked terribly alone as his head leaned back against the wall, staring blankly at nothing, his eyes angry and ready with tears. The small cubicle in the busy emergency room had no space for a bed, just two chairs, the other one occupied occasionally, but briefly and uncomfortably, by one of his friends. One at a time they would seem to begrudgingly leave the small group of young men who had gathered in the waiting room, laughing and playing cards, bored and apprehensive, unaccustomed to the antiseptic smell of the hospital.

It was not immediately obvious whether the disheveled young man sitting opposite my daughter and me was injured or ill, but as I watched him I noticed his right shoulder sloped lower than his left, and he carefully cradled his right arm with his left hand as if holding it in place. "Compound fracture of my collarbone. I broke it in 3 places" he said in answer to my questioning. Tenderly letting his right hand rest in his lap he pulled back the neckband of his logo-laden T-shirt, exposing a jagged piece of his collarbone jutting through the skin of his shoulder. Despite the Tylenol 3 he had taken, he was still clearly in pain. However, there was more hurting than his broken bones and bruises.

He winced as he described the accident that started with attempting a stunt at excessive speed and led to being catapulted off of his long board onto the concrete, landing him in emergency. Then he told me why he was really hurting. "What really sucks is that my wife could not bother to come to the hospital." It was obvious that the physical pain was being eclipsed by the heartache he felt, alone with only his haphazard friends to comfort him. "She would rather stay at the party then come to be with me." The rest of the story came gushing out like water as if a high-pressure tap had been turned on. He was 21 years old, and had married his 18-year-old sweetheart when he was 19. With a twisted grin, physically mimicking the simultaneous pain and irony of it, he said, "till death do us part I vowed... I meant that!"

In just a few minutes, after having asked a couple of innocent questions, the young man's heart was beating out loud for all who might care to hear. Despite the bravado, the physical environment of the hospital, even the injuries that brought him there, conspired to lay bare his soul. I felt his pain. I was humbled by it. Yet I was reassured by his willingness to openly share this hurt with a stranger who had little in common with him.

I have noticed that there are two basic responses I have to pain or loss of any kind, including my diagnosis of Parkinson's disease. The first and more prevalent reaction is that of stoicism, a type of denial that tries to convince everyone, "It is not that bad. The last thing I want is for you to feel sorry for me." What I expect really comes through is, "I am uncomfortable with being portrayed as weak, afraid of being in need, demanding my independence." This has the initially desired effect of keeping people at bay, ensuring that uncertainty and lack of confidence, that soft underbelly of humanity, are not exposed. We try to fool people with heroics, hoping that they do not see the fear in our eyes. But, of course, the consequence of this "mental toughness" is to convince others that I do not need them; it is an obvious lie.
The alternative response is when I react to pain or peril, illness or injury, by crying out in a mixture of anger and shame. Like the Simon and Garfunkel 1968 hit, “The Boxer”:

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminder

Of every glove that laid him down or cut him

‘Til he cried out in his anger and his shame

I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains.

We are, after all, vulnerable and human, sometimes bruised or bleeding. To think, talk or act inconsistent with that reality is to mislead others, and ourselves, pretending to be what we are not. We are all in need of love, and at least some expression of it, especially when we are most vulnerable. To deny that need is to deny our humanity. But perhaps even more importantly, our façade of fearlessness rejects or holds at arms’-length those who wish to care and express their concern. And in the process we remain self-imprisoned by our secret pain.

In a sense, we are all in the hospital emergency room, at least from time to time, with our own hurts and heartaches, waiting to be discovered or known despite our proud resistance. Waiting for those who would stay with us, and pray with us, and share our pain and sorrow. And in that way we all may learn the wisdom to be wounded healers.

Inhospitable Hospital

2011-05-14T16:38:00.000-07:00

It was 1030 PM on Tuesday. The rain seemed to have driven the sick, the suffering and the simpering into the packed hospital emergency waiting room. My daughter, grimacing due to inflamed and infected tonsils, had been there since mid-afternoon. I had just arrived for the late shift, waiting, not so patiently, to see a doctor.

The waiting "priority system", although impossible to discern in the melee of comings and goings, was explained to me by the harassed intake clerk. Behind the heavy safety glass partition she vacillated between being halfheartedly sympathetic and stressed out. She had reacted with exasperation to my "how long will we have to wait" query, as if I had asked her a dozen times. "We cannot say. We take the serious cases first and others in order of arrival." This answer struck me as the slogan for our medical plan’s "priority system" for every illness and injury. The problem is that the definition of "serious cases" can fluctuate for any number of reasons. It did not escape me that rarely does Parkinson's disease hit that list so it tends to languish in the "incurable" waiting room.

Moments after hearing the receptionist's wait warning, a tired-looking nurse barked my daughter's name into the suddenly silent room. We were ushered past the electric-lock security door labeled "Emergency Personnel Only - Do Not Enter". Leaving behind the waiting room collage of broken bones, crying children and anxious family members, I felt guilty. I wondered whether my daughter's situation was now deemed serious enough or whether she had waited long enough to earn entry into the inner sanctum. Regardless, we were "in".

It was a deceptive feeling of success. We were shown to one of more than a dozen of those bed cubicles separated from beds on either side by sheets hanging from overhead tracks. We waited, as if holding a lottery ticket, not knowing whether we would get medical attention in minutes or hours. There was one doctor clad in hiking boots who walked hurriedly from patient to patient, grabbing clipboards, reading and uttering to nurses in unintelligible medical terms on the fly. Again, my thoughts segued to patients with Parkinson's, who were so often left holding onto hope of getting answers from overworked doctors.

As opposed to PD, my daughter got the needed medical help after another hour of waiting, and the intravenous antibiotic began its magic healing as it dripped from its elevated bag into her arm. If only PD were that easy to heal, rather than requiring the endless string of pills just to keep limbs from seizing or shaking out of their sockets.

As we waited that night amid the anguish of those in desperation, those in need of emergency care, I realized there would be waiting ahead for me. There seems to be an abundance of patience required for millions who wait for healing before the demanding nature of Parkinson’s disease has its way. But I will continue to believe that there is hope. It may not come through an IV needle, transplanted stem cells or the electronic stimulation of depleted dopamine production. Still, there is hope even now.

How a Mother's Heart Hurts

2011-05-08T00:27:00.000-07:00

Laura and June

Laura, although I never called her that, was not yet 65 when she died. It was cancer that took her in 1979, before she enjoyed much of the leisure her life of labour had earned. She had lived a hard life at times. I sometimes saw the painful memories in her eyes when the rest of us were playing Crokinole and she stood alone washing dishes while staring out the kitchen window into the darkening country sky. But whatever those buried sorrows were, never did she lose the honest warmth in her smiles and hugs, both so freely given. She died too young. Like many mothers of her era she had selflessly given her life to her husband, her three children and her 10 grandchildren, of which I was blessed to be one.

Olga had lived an even harsher life than Laura. At times it was overflowing with hardship and deprivations. No time for her to learn to read or write, yet her intelligence was unmistakably poured into her children, all of whom knew the meaning of hard work; many of the younger ones excelling at school. She gave birth to 16 or 17 children, by some counts, but she also suffered the crushing losses of babies at birth, a toddler by fire and a teen at the hands of a drunk driver. Sometimes there was a faraway, stony look in her eyes while she muttered to herself in German as she rhythmically pumped the pedal of her spinning wheel, making wool yarn while I, her eldest nearby grandson, played nearby on the patched linoleum floor in the farmhouse kitchen. She lived a long life, into her 90s, perhaps too long, for her final years seemed spent longing to go to her place of certain rest and reward.

June, who never seemed to mind that her first and last name rhymed as a result of her marriage, benefitted from the hard work of her mother, Laura, and the daycare provided by her mother-in-law, Olga. But she did not escape suffering completely. Parkinson’s disease became the thief that stole my father’s “golden years”, and hers along with his. And it was the diagnosis of the same villain that brought her tears and a sense of helplessness and sympathetic pain that mothers often feel for their adult children. Yet even this cruel offence does not crush her courage and faith to drink of life as best she can.

I am the beneficiary of a rich inheritance, made possible through the pain and losses of three “mothers”.

From my perspective motherhood is, perhaps, the best and most endearing human example of love that most of us will ever experience. Once a woman becomes a mother she can never not be one. It is like a permanent tattoo emblazoned not only across her body by the strain of childbirth, but also her heart and soul. Most mothers willingly, day-by-day, give up their lives for their children. They would do anything to take their pain or suffering, or shield them from its harshness. Therefore, if as the book of John [paraphrased] says, "greater love hath no woman than one who would give up her life for another”, then certainly a mother’s love is among the greatest.

While we live in a generation that often seems to have forgotten the essential nature of motherhood, and the fundamental need of a mother’s love, Mother's Day still stirs the hearts of even those who have long since lost the physical presence of their mother. For good, or otherwise, the impact that a mother has on her children is indelible. Today, it is for each son and daughter to praise their mother “and call her blessed” as that great Proverb says. None were perfect. But with few exceptions, they did their best with what they had.

I know that I owe my “mothers” a debt I can only pay by passing on the best of what they gave me to those I can.

The Honeymoon is Over?

2011-05-04T23:00:00.000-07:00

Tall, tanned and with a voice to match his authority, the highway patrolman was professional, polite and proficient as he presented the ticket he had written up through the open window. For some unknown reason there was no indication as to the amount of the fine noted on the pink copy, leaving us fearful of the worst. What I did know is that we had been pulled over for blowing through a stop sign at 50 miles an hour. Frustrated, discouraged and anxious, for reasons not immediately obvious, this seemed both ironic and significant.

37 years ago today, it was a very young and naïve couple who exchanged vows, convinced that statistics would not make their commitment a casualty. We lacked the maturity, life experience and wisdom to make that bold assumption, but it proved to be correct. Despite many struggles and stresses, the welding of our two lives withstood the struggles and strains and remained unbroken, becoming even stronger over the years. When trials threatened to slam the brakes on the relationship, we hung on and kept going. Any temptations to stop, give in, or quit were brushed aside. The honeymoon may be over but the love has stayed firmly anchored.

Even when the diagnosis of my Parkinson's disease was flung into my face like a bold four-letter word stamped in white on a red octagon sign, there seemed no reason to obey its demand. Life did not lurch to a stop. Rather, my wife and I committed to live to the fullest each moment of relative freedom we had. We remain, like escaped jailbirds, Bonnie and Clyde, who know that we will likely be caught in the ugly snare of increasing debilitation, the shaking and stiffness that squeezes me tighter in its grip each passing year. We refuse to be "victims of this unattractive disease", as stated in The Washington Post column, “Having Parkinson’s Disease is Nothing to Celebrate” by Phyllis Richman, person with Parkinson's and former food critic for that newspaper.
Yes, there are times when, because of this "unattractive disease", I feel lonely, even with my wife by my side. I know that sometimes I opt for the "cozy", preferring the use of words such as "challenged" rather than "suffering". But what is the alternative?

I may be guilty of disobeying stop signs, ignoring "realism" and its statistics and disregarding my imminent arrest and imprisonment by Parkinson's. This may be self-delusional, spitting foolishly in the face of fate, but I have a faithful lifelong partner with whom I will continue to live life to the fullest. With the many obvious risks and sometimes daunting challenges of both marriage and life with our concerns, even when the honeymoon is over I will remain committed to my vows to keep going, keep loving and keep doing my best to elude the ultimate stop sign.

The Day I Was Defeated

2011-04-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

It was another rainy April day 30 years ago. The gray skyscrapers blended with the gray rain from the gray skies as I walked away from the courthouse in the gloom of my dark thoughts. My mind searched frantically through its database of excuses and scapegoats but found none worthy of the occasion. I had no one to blame but myself. I had blundered badly in the important courtroom battle. I had failed miserably. Worse, I had failed others in the process. I could not ignore that reality. I saw in their eyes. I had not prepared my clients to lose. I had not prepared myself for that disappointment. I wanted to cry out in self-pity, rail against God because of my weakness, put on the proverbial sackcloth and sit in gray ashes in grief and public humiliation I was worthy of. But it all seemed wrong, selfish, melodramatic and too easy. Defeat had come at my own hands, as it unavoidably would from time to time over the next 3 decades.

Today I shuddered noticeably as I recognized the same sinking sensation and heard the same self-indictment, "You failed!". In my business this condemnation must be recognized for what it is: fact, as inescapable as my humanity. I have often felt the fear of failure, the specter of imminent defeat. And when it comes I remember its sting, its harsh criticism or its wagging finger reminding me that, "You could have done better". I will never grow accustomed to that sick feeling of shame. And that is a good thing.

I once heard a senior lawyer who, with chest puffed out as if to show off a string of shiny medals, announced to me, “I have never lost in court and I never will”. Immediately, I found myself both jealous, wanting to be able to make that claim, and disgusted, for I knew he was a braggart barking for attention, a liar covering his lackluster record or a coward for having never taken on a difficult case. Perhaps he was all three. In the final analysis, I felt sorry for him, for I had learned little in my successes, but a great deal through my failures.

In a sense, Parkinson's disease is akin to the type of failure I had experienced in courtrooms, negotiations and other legal “competitions”. Perhaps my prior failures had prepared me for grappling with this neurological giant. My past experiences have taught me to process "failure" carefully by asking:

1. Is “failure” just a feeling or a fact? Is it prematurely anticipated or fully realized? Is it a realistic assessment or simply the fruit of my excessive expectations? Many times PD leads to feelings, fearsome and foreboding.

2. Is “failure” stopping me from enjoying things? If, as is often the case, my sense of failure is more a feeling than a fact, it may still need to be vented. I have tried to find a nondestructive way to balance out the heaviness with something that refreshes me, like taking a ride on my motorcycle.

3. Have I learned anything? Most of my past failures proved to be invaluable experiences, teaching me things that I could only learn through a sense of defeat. Parkinson's is the same. While I may not feel like it, I try to redefine my losses as lessons from which much can be gleaned. This process typically sends me on a search for the treasure that may lie buried in the muck of my embarrassment. Parkinson's disease can yield much reward.

4. Is it necessary to beat myself up over “failure”? Pummeling myself over some human frailty rarely accomplishes anything, although failures can leave unnecessary "bruises" and scars if simply suppressed. For me, it seems necessary that I find a place (like a journal) to express my frustration. But having done so, such recognition time must lead me away from mourning to moving on. I need to take responsibility for my failures; I also need to forgive myself, let myself off the hook a little, and go forward.

As Alexander Pope said in 1711 in “An Essay on Criticism”:

To err is human, to forgive divine…

Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

Living Life by Accident

2011-04-22T21:02:00.000-07:00

It was "Good" Friday 13 years ago. I had been awake since long before dawn. There was a sense of foreboding about the day, but nothing prepared me for the "perfect storm" that was to be unleashed. The events that followed (I will spare you the details) left me scarred, disoriented, my confidence shattered. It took days before I regained partial consciousness, only to find myself clinging to the charred remains of what had been a well-ordered life, my lungs screaming for breath as each wave sought to drown me. My life became a bewildering sea of confusion. With no idea of which direction to swim, I felt like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, “Alone, alone, all all alone, alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on my soul in agony”.

Life can be a scary prospect. Accidents happen every day. Some of them are good, and some of them are disastrous. Bumping into an old friend on the street. Good. Backing into a post in the supermarket parking lot. Bad. Marrying someone who actually sticks around "for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health". Extraordinary. Being estranged from someone you love. Heartrending. Being born into a family in a country that can meet your every need and provide opportunities that seem endless. Fantastic. Living life in a poverty-stricken Third World country, facing the crossfire between religious fanatics while at the same time losing family members to AIDS. Crushing.

For some, life is what happens to you. It is comprised of reactions, attempts to escape the negative and enjoy the positive events encountered as we wander aimlessly. Life is lived by accident. There is no overarching purpose, no North Star. It is a jigsaw puzzle in which few of the pieces fit together at all.

For me, I choose to trust that the puzzle pieces do fit together, even if I cannot see the full picture at present. Despite the consequences that followed, neither the events of Good Friday many years ago, nor the diagnosis of my Parkinson’s disease, were accidents. Difficult though it has been sometimes, both "tragedies" focused my heart and mind. They caused me to ask the defining question, "What is my purpose?".

Statisticians say that 85% of us live life by accident. That is, only 15% of us have a definable, overriding purpose or plan, a set of lifelong goals or aspirations. 85% of us spend our lives avoiding or reacting to the events that invade our every day existence. Perhaps surprisingly, only 2% of us write down our purpose, plans, goals and aspirations. But it is that 2% who are 10 times more likely to achieve them. That is purposeful living.

It seems only fitting that, on a day that commemorates an apparently purposeless death by the cruelest means, we should consider how we might live life with a sense of purpose. Whether you are religious or not, the story of Good Friday, followed by Easter Sunday, became a defining example of a "purpose driven life".

I can now look back on those days, 13 years ago, and refer to them as some of the best things that have ever happened to me. The tumultuous events led to extraordinarily positive consequences, undreamed of opportunity and blessing. Now that more than 5 years have passed since the diagnosis of Parkinson's disease, I am beginning to see a similar pattern. A sense of purpose has arisen.

I am faced every day with at least two tough questions: Will I believe that life is a series of accidents, or is there purpose behind each event? Will I live life by accident or with purpose?

Tearing Down Fences

2011-04-17T21:20:00.000-07:00

It was an old, four-strand, barbed wire fence. From the look of the mostly-rotted posts that held up the rusty wire it should have been easy for my son and I to tear down. But when it comes to fences, whether constructed in relationships or built to separate portions of land, appearances can be deceiving. Removing a fence can take even longer than it did to build it in the first place.

One difficulty arose in removal of the fence because it was obscured by and enmeshed in the undergrowth that had sprung up over the years. In some cases, the wire was actually embedded in a tree branch. In other places the bottom strand of wire was buried in the ground among tree roots. To deal with the fence we had to clear some of the brush and excavate around some trees. But that was not the hardest part. Even after the barbed wire was carefully wound into wicked-looking wreaths, there were the posts to deal with. Some were easy, almost disintegrating in our hands. But others were like extremely stubborn sentries, defiantly resisting all but the most strenuous efforts. It was exhausting work. After hours of exertion we were successful in removing only about 25 metres of fencing.

I have built many "fences" in my life, or in some cases allowed them to be constructed. These were not physical fences, but they are nonetheless real. Most of them are hidden from view, having been overgrown over the years by the "scrub brush" that fills in each day. Despite obscurity, my fences remain haunting reminders of the past need, perceived or real, to have them in place. Initially, fences of all kinds are erected to keep something important in, or something dangerous out. They are intended to mark off territory, inevitably restricting both the freedom to come in and go out. Robert Frost once said, "Do not ever take a fence down until you know why it was put up". But even when any initial purpose has long since disappeared, the fence still stands, blocking, or at least impeding, access to what lies beyond. Long after their usefulness has dissipated, they remain a testimony to past insecurity.

While it may be true, as Robert Frost wrote in his poem "Mending Wall", that, "good fences make for good neighbors", it is also true that fences can constrain the growth of those kept in as well as those fenced out. "Fear is the highest fence". Sometimes, I have left the fences in place far too long, failing to tackle the task of tearing them down, perhaps out of laziness, or most likely because of fear.
Parkinson's disease, or most any other disease, can easily become a fence. Uncertain as to how others may respond to its visible symptoms, it can have the effect of keeping people at the perimeter of one's life, protecting the vulnerability that one so often feels. As I anticipate the increased challenges of the disease, I realize that it will take increasingly fierce and focused effort to clear away the daily distractions and tear down the fences that limit my freedom, and that of others; freedom to confront reality with all its pain and promise; freedom to live as fully as possible.

It is time to tear down some fences.

I Just Do Not Care

2011-04-13T22:06:00.000-07:00

Why vote, it does not matter who gets elected. Who cares who wins the Stanley Cup? Why bother working so hard, what difference does it make anyway. War in Libya? What does it matter? I just do not care.
Do you ever get to the place where you find yourself repeating, "I just do not feel like it"? The things that you once enjoyed do not have any "kick". You find yourself just wasting time with mindless and meaningless activity. Life just seems to have had the joy sucked out of it. Not a fun place to be, is it? But most, if not all, of us, at some time or other, find ourselves in those emotional doldrums.

Apathy. Indifference. The absence of excitement, motivation or passion. It is different than depression, boredom or just feeling down. Apathetic folks become lethargic, uncaring and distant. With all that life has to offer, even if there are some problems to be faced, it is hard to believe that apathy is even possible, let alone prevalent in our society. Feeling embarrassed, guilty, even ashamed, the truth is that apathy slips into my thinking more times than I would like to admit.

For people with Parkinson's disease, retreat into an apathetic state is an increasingly significant threat. It seems that as the dopamine drains from our system it takes with it our enthusiasm for almost everything. A recent study shows that a minimum of one-third of high functioning PD patients are apathetic, whereas this number skyrockets to 80% for those on the extreme end of the disease. Maybe it is the loss of dopamine, or maybe there is a loss of control over our bodies.

So what do you do when you "just do not feel like doing anything"? Regardless of the source (chemical or emotional/psychological), I have discovered that this is a battle I must fight with strategy and discipline. Psychologists believe that apathy affects "executive functioning" (which is not sitting behind a big desk with the title of "Chief Executive Officer"). The executive system is thought to be heavily involved in handling situations in which routine thinking or behavior would not be sufficient for optimal performance, including:

1. Planning or decision making
2. Error correction or troubleshooting
3. Unrehearsed or novel sequences of actions
4. Dangerous or technically difficult situations
5. Overcoming strong habitual response or resisting temptation.

These, then, are the battlegrounds upon which apathy can and must be fought. Getting apathetic? Try the following:

1. Plan a trip to a place, near or far, you have not been before, at least for a long time. Make a decision that you have been putting off, like going through your dresser or closet for clothes to give away.
2. Fix something that is broken, such as a dripping tap, a hole in the wall, a light bulb that needs replacing. Figure out how to use that computer program you have avoided.
3. Go to an event that might make you feel uncomfortable, like a "slam poetry" contest, improvisation theatre, or a yoga class.
4. Do something edgy. Sign-up for parachute lessons, a self-defense class or volunteer at a rehab centre.
5. Give up your favorite "comfort" food for a month and replace it with something healthy.

Whether it is Parkinson's disease or something else, apathy is an enemy that slowly steals our initiative, our motivation. Getting in means we go blind, deaf and dumb; we lose the vitality of our senses of smell, taste and feel. To surrender is to sink into a lifeless sleep so that apathy may plunder our soul. We must recognize our opponent for what it is: a slow and senseless death sentence. Prepare for battle!

A Day to Disregard Deadlines

2011-04-10T02:32:00.000-07:00

Gusty winds made his cheeks redden, looking as if he had discovered makeup for the first time. At 11 AM it should have been warmer, but the spring sky remained cloudy, threatening rain, and the temperature hovered winterlike at 5°C (42° Fahrenheit). There was work to be done, both inside and outside, with little time to do either. But I had promised that young man we would do something and, even though he might not remember, I would. The work would have to wait, as I could not let my words spoken to him echo in painful regret and shame into the future days, or months, or longer.

My grandson, PJ, sporting his yellow slicker just in case the rain came early, was bundled against the chill as I walked, him running ahead with excitement, toward the edge of the hill behind our house. He knew where to go, although leafless trees guarding the edge of the property hid our destination. "Go down the hill, Grandpa," he said, momentarily stopping. Knowing the path that lay ahead through the trees he let go of my hand and ran as fast as his 2-year-old legs would carry him. Catching up with him just before the terrain tipped into the shallow ravine, I grabbed his hand again. Breathless, all he could say was, "Go see the water, Grandpa. Let’s go to the water."

Slipping and sliding in fun down the narrow path that leads to the valley's bottom, we arrived at the small river's edge. Knowing the answer already, I asked my little companion what he wanted to do now that we had arrived. "Walk in the water. I want to go in the water. Please, Grandpa". Before finishing the sentence he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the riverbank. As he neared the "river" (more like a creek, really) he reached up to be carried. We both entered the water with a sense of anticipation, his being the prospect of the adventure that lay ahead, mine being the potential that the swift running, frigid water would overflow my boots.

Despite feigned close calls on slippery rocks and pretending to be stuck in soft sandbars, we soon found what was becoming our favorite place, a pebbled shore where rocks were in abundance. I quickly forgot about time as we threw an endless barrage of everything from small stones to boulders into the rushing stream, creating a variety of splashes depending on the size and trajectory of the rock thrown. An hour went by. We talked little, except to comment on the distance of a rock thrown, the size of a splash made, or the discovery of a worm underneath a piece of ammunition we needed for our assault on the river. A wide grin never left either of our faces.

It was only later, when I held my pajama-clad grandson, celebrating the day and kissing him goodnight, that I realized how during the aimless hour we spent tossing stones into the river I had entirely forgotten my waiting work and even the fact that I had Parkinson's disease. It was as if the complexity of my life was swallowed in the simplicity of his enjoyment of that hour. All of my demands and deadlines ceased to exist during that time, disappearing like the stones we had thrown in the water.

Drive hard to deadlines day-by-day,

My discipline dictated,

Demanding I be duty bound

Delights must stay deflated.

Dawn leads to dusk and every day

My dreams seem strangely distant.

Disease draws near, depression's crown,

Discourager persistent.

Despite life’s daily drudgery

My destiny calls, "Forward.

Defeat the dark and death delay,

Destroy the gloom, march onward".

Decision made, defying doubt,

My task a young boy’s wishes,

Depose all lies that toil and sweat

Dare rival hugs and kisses.

5 Insights into Inspiration

2011-04-06T21:30:00.000-07:00

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

You cannot breathe out what you did not breathe in. Each breath is a gift given to each of us that we cannot retain. It is the gift of life itself.

"Inspire" literally means, "to breathe in or onto". You cannot inspire others until someone or something inspires you. To the extent that someone is inspired he or she will naturally inspire others. Inspiration is a gift.

Since being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2006, I find myself continually seeking inspiration. Who does not want inspiration? And who does not want to be inspiring?

But how do we live an inspired and inspiring life? Just as a breath disappears in a moment, it may also be true that any insights into inspiration are equally fleeting. But, for what it is worth, here are my thoughts.

1. Like the air we breathe, inspiration is all around us. Like taking a deep breath of crisp, clean, mountain air, inspiration may be good. Or like inhaling brown, polluted smog, it may be bad. There is no noticeable shortage of either. Inspiration may be found in the vastness of nature or isolated in the end of the drug-dripping needle. Your choice.

2. If we value our ability to breathe, we need to be discriminating about what we breathe. There are plenty of toxic fumes that can prove lethal. In fact, my own Parkinson's disease may have resulted in part from growing up in pesticide-protected apple orchards. Ignoring where we get our inspiration can prove just as toxic.

3. Deep breathing is healthy. It feeds every cell in your body, lowers your heart rate and decreases stress. It releases nature’s built-in painkillers, endorphins, into your body. It exercises your body and clears your mind. Inspiration, too, has seemingly supernatural potential. It enlivens us and gives us perspective. It feeds our souls.

4. Breathing is a continual process. Our bodies were built to rely upon it. But rarely do we actually recognize its presence and importance. Likewise, although our spirits long for inspiration, we often ignore its sources. We take it for granted, settling for ignorance, diversions, entertainment and the unimportant. Without inspiration we live in dissonance, knowing we are missing something vital, yet dashing on to the next distraction or drama.

5. The more you breathe in, the more you breathe out. It is a cycle. And so it is with inspiration. Whether good or bad, that which has been inhaled will be exhaled. While it is generally true that, "we are what we eat", it is also accurate to say that we only inspire others as we ourselves are inspired.

Listen, wait, read, and watch attentively. All the while discern the best sources from which to breathe deeply. Be prepared to be delighted with the discoveries you make.

For me, I am often inspired by the courage of others who fight their own adversities and share with me their stories of wars, both won or lost. Whether lost in the subtlety of a sunset, or confounded by the complexity of the human mind, or overwhelmed in the wisdom of the elderly or the unvarnished truth of a child's words, let us seek inspiration daily so that we may become inspire others. To fail is to expire before our time.