What’s Next?

There always seems to be a letdown after an adventure.  In most cases, the air in the balloon begins to escape before the end of the journey.  Such is the case in my trip to Antarctica.  That deflated feeling begins to creep into the final days and hours as I anticipate the dream, converted to an experience, become a memory. 

It took 7 years for the idea of going to Antarctica to become a reality.  It was conceived in the waning moments of the trip I took with my dear friend, Carson Pue, around the world in 2012.  We were in New Zealand, the end of the trip and splitting up to travel different directions after together.  We had visited 17 countries, experiencing more adventures than we could count.  We found ourselves asking, “What’s next?”  We had visited all seven continents except one, so it seemed logical to answer that question with ”Antarctica”, despite knowing nothing about what was involved nor having any appreciation for what challenges would become part of our lives in the following years.  I won’t recount the circumstances, except to say it has been a difficult series of events since we naively agreed that the next big adventure would be Antarctica.

Now, the journey to Antarctica is over, as well as our visit to Buenos Aries, Ushuaia and Puerto Madryn, all in Argentina, the Falkland Islands (under Great Britain’s flag) and Montevideo, Uruguay.  Our venture to the last continent, the most southerly place we will ever experience, is behind us.  The memories of this extraordinary expedition are already indelibly etched by the synapses into our minds (if that is what synapses do, physiologically speaking).  We are not likely to forget being bundled in layers of clothes to stand on deck staring in disbelief at the brilliant white and blue icebergs, and the countless glaciers with sheer faces intersecting the frigid waters.  There were innumerable sightings of playful penguins racing our ship as well as too many whale sightings to recall.  Though uninhabited by humans, other than the few itinerant occupants of small scientific stations scattered around the perimeters of this frozen continent, it is much bigger than I ever imagined (5.5 million square miles, 14.4 million square kilometers – the size of the continental USA and Mexico combined and 1.5 times larger than Canada).  It is difficult to believe that, while much of the earth’s surface has been occupied, or at least discovered, for millennia, Antarctica was only discovered in 1820, a mere 200 years ago, and is far from being fully explored.

Still, despite my age and decreasing mobility, energy and time, I find myself searching my bucket list for the next adventure; asking the same question, “What’s next?  Because it is never too soon to plan the next adventure.

I have learned something about adventures over the years. They represent more of an attitude than an action or activity. They are not so much an idea as the experience realized when circumstances dictate or provide opportunity. It doesn’t take a trip to Antarctica to have an adventure. But it does take a willingness to engage and embrace uncertainty and risk, to step outside of the comfort zone we so readily occupy. The recipe for adventure needs a dash of courage, a sprinkle of faith, and a measure of patience as one waits for the unique taste of significance to fill one’s senses.

Whether challenging the unfamiliar elements, grappling with fear, disease, failure, loss or insecurity, when an adventure reaches the time when it’s almost over, or there is a new chapter, there are three things to do.  First, plant the memories in your garden of adventures, where you can stroll through the variegated colors, moods, characters, significance and impact.  I need to remember the things I learned along the way, not just ‘move on’.  Second, do not let melancholy, disappointment or resentment taint the final hours or days.  Drink it to completion.  I am often prone to miss the special or surprising endings waiting for me unless I am looking for them.  Third, begin in earnest to imagine the next adventure before the current one is fully spent.  Big or small, commit yourself to live on purpose, embrace the known and unknown.  Dream again.  Plan again.  

We are made for adventure.

Are you only as old as you think you are?

Often do you ask yourself the question, “How long would I like to live?” If you’re like me (heaven forbid), this is a question you rarely spend much time pondering. To a large extent, this may be an irrelevant question to ask.  We are not prone to ask the question with statistics in mind. One reason for that is the realization that life expectancies are increasing at a fairly significant rate. In Canada, when I was born in 1952, the life expectancy I was given was 66 years. Today, my life expectancy for someone my age is 81. For whatever reason, I have gained 15 years of living, statistically speaking.   

Many of us seem to prefer the cheerfully fatalistic answer taken from the Doris Day Oscar-winning theme song, “Que Sera Sera” (What will be, will be).  This classic goes on in lilting, mellifluous tones, “The future’s not ours to see”. Although I was only four years old at the time this song was topping the charts, I am reminded of it occasionally because of my wife’s affection for old movies.

Assuming that most of you are too young to know who Doris Day is*, you are highly unlikely to be asking the question at all!

Yesterday, I had a stimulating conversation with a 90-year-old friend. Among other topics, we discussed aging. Phrases like, “You’re only as old as you think you are”, ”It’s about quality not quantity” and “Why do most of us have such a strong drive to survive beyond the statistical norm.?” I commented that Parkinson’s disease has all the attributes of accelerated aging, which prompts me to think more like my 90-year-old friend, than my 67-year-old body would otherwise suggest.

While it might be nice to muse about the possibility of reducing one’s chronological age by simply “thinking younger”, that activity is insufficient in itself. After all, whatever the age, we inevitably must recognize that life is short no matter how young or old we are.

I also disagree with our society’s constant swooning over the young, pursuing a modern age version of a Fountain of Youth. Is there really no merit in getting older? Does human life actually have a “best before date”? I think not. I recognize the extraordinary value in the resilience, enthusiasm and creativity of young people, having spent six years engaging university students. I also acknowledge the unfortunate propensity for at least some of us in our senior years to be complainers, close-minded and self-centered. 

However, I see great value, and have respect for the elderly, as opposed to those of us who are simply older. Many of my senior friends are deep thinkers, love to laugh, challenge my presuppositions and prejudices, and are simply not willing to resign themselves to, “what will be, will be”. The future may not be ours to see, but the present is ours to live.

Accepting the sometimes mind-numbing, body-trembling and rigor mortis-like stiffness, I have an answer to the question, “How long would I like to live?” One engaged-to-the-extent-I-am-able day at a time, with a mind that recognizes not only the troubles of the present but is motivated by the possibilities of the future; thankful I can share the journey with others, both young and old.

*For those of you who might want to know (all three of you!), Doris Day lived to be 97 and died on May 13, 2019.

Get Out Of the Shower!

The water pelts down from the showerhead and I stick my hand into the spray, testing the temperature. It must be hot. Not warm. But almost unbearably hot. Stepping into the tiled shower stall I face away from the showerhead. The steam begins to rise and float out of the shower and fills the bathroom, condensing on the mirrors and windows, starting from the ceiling and drifting down. I close my eyes. 

The morning shower ritual feels like part massage, part sauna and part cleansing. It it is a prayer that washes away the nightmares of my troubled sleep. It re-calibrates my mind. At first there are creative, untethered, and even unimaginable thoughts that drift undisciplined through my mind. I surrender to the muse as words begin to form around my thoughts. Sometimes music drifts among the words.

But, too soon, the invasion of the day’s schedule and persistent priorities bring focus to ideas. Pragmatism begins to sweep away the secret sense of well-being. I know I cannot win this tug-of-war. It ends with silent resentment as the water stops, and cold air creeps towards me, across the floor, over my feet and up my legs. Resigned, I reach for the towel to dry my rapidly cooling body.

And so the day begins with the sacrament of the shower.

This morning I fought harder in the shower before I submitted to the demands of the day. Somehow, it being my 67^th birthday, I felt a sense of entitlement, reward, and privilege. The luxury of those extra minutes lingering in the shower before stepping into the cold air was like a gift to myself. But I could not succumb to this temptation for long. I don’t sit down in a shower.  I may have to at some time in my life but for now, it just does not feel right.

Luxurious as it is, my shower is transition. Just as the dawn is the transition from night to day. It has a natural rhythm.

The symptoms of Parkinson’s disease constitute a harsh reality. Sometimes we who battle this disease seek to escape the pain, the frustration and the fatigue. A few glasses of wine, indulging ourselves, or simply giving in rather than fighting back. Understandable. But we cannot stay in the shower.

As I begin my 67^th year, I know that the temptation to stay longer in the shower will increase. The inner struggle to stay where it is safe and warm will grow. Still, reality and purpose only exist outside the shower.

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit." Aristotle.

Imagining the Parkinson's Story

What will my Parkinson's disease be like next year? In 5 years? How fast will my PD progress?  These are not inspiring questions.   And if you are asking them the answer in your head is not likely to be overly encouraging.  I could spend all day imagining the worst of predictions.

PD or no PD, we all spend time, often a great deal of time, translating our current struggles into tomorrow's sorrows. Why do we envisage unhappy endings in the middle of the story.  Instead, we could be writing the ending we want and working to make it a reality.  I am convinced that there must be no giving up on the best ending, even in the worst of times.

Great authors start fictional works with the end in mind. Successful adventurers begin their journeys with their destination chosen. It is a terrible waste to simply live like you write a journal or just wander through each day, month or year aimlessly without direction. There is little benefit to singing endless verses of the Doris Day fatalistic hit, "Que Sera Sera". How about memorizing Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" instead.  After all, which is more inspiring?

Someone once said, "Life wouldn't be so tough if it weren't so daily."  It is certainly true for those of us with PD. The dailyness is often tough, and we know it may well get worse. But what if we write our story as a battle that ends victoriously. What does "victory" mean to you? If you can't define it how will you attain it? Now I know that a positive plan does not mean it will play out perfectly. Circumstances may dictate edits to the plan, a twist in the tale or even writing a new chapter. But if you cannot imagine a happy ending then today's troubles will replay themselves as variations on the "woe is me" theme.

We must dare to imagine a way through the troubles we face. We must define success even when doing so creates the fear of failure. We must pursue our best dreams even if it means confronting our worst nightmares. If we fail to script a hero's ending to life's saga then we have become the villain.

Help! I am an 18-Year-Old Stuck in a 58-Year-Old Body With Parkinson's Disease

There was no dream too big. No limit to the adventures ahead. The sun was shining, the flowers blooming, and love was in the air. Life could only get better and better. At 18 years old, the world was literally my oyster, seeded with not just one pearl but an inexhaustible supply. I wanted them all.

Growing old or suffering some sickness were too far away to even imagine; a highly questionable long-term weather forecast that seemed irrelevant. We were still riding the waves of the ideal 1960s, when we, the flower-powered youth, commandeered the wheelhouse of culture, demanding change and chanting, "do not trust anyone over 30" (David Weinberger, University of California Berkeley, 1964).

40 years passed. Quickly! Those years were filled with pursuing dreams; sometimes realizing them with jubilation, and sometimes watching them die a slow, discouraging death. Most of us have now come to realize that, in our rebellion against authority, one thing we had forgotten was to "respect our elders". In fact, we had forgotten our elders altogether. The "old folks’ homes" were nonexistent to most of us back then. Parkinson's and other "old people’s diseases" were virtually unknown to young people. Of course, all that is changing. Now, when cursing the dizzying speed with which technology changes, we may whisper, at least to ourselves, "do not trust anyone under 30". We cannot seem to keep up to them. We are tiring of the panicked pace. But we do not know how to slow down and give up the control we have maintained for the past four decades. In fact, we may even fear that the youth of today will follow our example and relegate us to somewhat more upscale "old folks’ homes" to be left alone to question the quality and powerlessness of the lives we have left.

For many of us in this bloated demographic bubble called ‘baby boomers’, we have begun to realize the ironic comparison between the heady optimism of our teenage years, and the over-promising, under-delivering expectations we are sold on infomercials guaranteeing painlessness, performance and prosperity to defeat our skepticism. Somehow, to put our hope in either the drug-induced dreams of yesterday, or the pill-popping promises of tomorrow, seems hopelessly unrealistic.

Perhaps foolishly, I am still 18 at heart. But I seem to be indentured to a body that is insistent on teaching me about pain and imperfection, aging and disability. Despite these lessons, there remains in me, as there does in many other baby boomers, an enthusiasm, a curiosity, a thirst for learning and a heart that wants to see the world become a better place. But the 18-year-old heart has matured. While optimism may be more guarded, I cannot give up the belief that our generation can make a difference, both for ourselves and the generations to follow.

It is an exciting time to reclaim the best things about our youth: our communication of passion, our ability to understand power and influence, our willingness to work together despite differences. But instead of being distracted by protests, parties, pot and politics, we have an opportunity to use 40 years’ worth of skills and resources to focus on the needs of those who face, or will face, chronic and degenerative disease. That is more than a distant dream. It is attainable.

The Erosion of Parkinson's Disease

The small waves lap at night incessantly, like kitten tongues against the milky shore.  Their ceaseless licking strokes erode with unseen strength; carressing, creeping, taking.  These tiny tidal waves in secret carry the grains of sand away, like Parkinson's and age steal my vitality and vigour, depositing them on some distant ocean floor or unknown island shore.  Unrecoverable, the loss is mine.  No more the carefree beach ball days when we ignored the gritty specks between our toes or laughed in tumbling waves that left the stolen sand in every body crevasse. 

It seems that I must watch and wait until the shore is gone, and in its place unfriendly boulders lay to slow my stumbling path.  The sand that clings to cracks and grassy clods drains grain by grain, like from the famous hourglass, but now to endless seas.  It's gone so soon, too soon it seems.  And leaving me with shivers on the craggy shore once filled with barefoot bathers laying, playing, loving midst the castle dreams made of sand I dream.

I dream of shores restored by some reversal of it all that courses through my veins with victory and relief.  Or if not soon then let the sand return for those who yet might know a sunny, smiling day.  For just as beaches drift away I know that there are cliffs so steep and strong that must surrender to the waves the sand that made the softest shores.

I will not mourn the theft of sand from shores a part of me, but laugh and know that someday soon the master of the ocean's power will bring it back.  And joy can be the rhythm now of waves that wash through me.

Confronting the Valley of Reality

How do you return to the valley of reality after being on the mountaintop? How do you retain the lightheartedness and anticipation of adventure when it is over?

Over the past 2 weeks I traveled 7575 kilometres (4700 miles) by motorcycle through 6 American states (Washington, Oregon, Montana, Idaho, South Dakota and Wyoming). Most days were unplanned until planning became necessary, with only 2 motel reservations having been made in advance (July 4 weekend), one of which we did not use. I averaged 475 kilometers per day (300 miles), experiencing a lot of country and excitement every day. It was nothing short of exhilarating and yet, with the exception of some troublesome work problems creeping in, the days of riding left plenty of room for uninterrupted "helmet time". The necessity of focusing on the road, and whatever peripheral vision permitted, has a way of brushing from my mind all thoughts of "significance". Thinking is reduced to itinerant translations of relatively insignificant current events: "I wonder what kind of bird that is?"; "How fast should I take this 40 mile an hour corner?"; or "Is not life great!". These were times of mountaintop experiences. Peak to peak, summit to summit, picture-perfect panorama views from snowy places 5000 feet closer to heaven.

But the reality I returned to is a valley. It is where people live. And it is back to the valley that I must bring the perspective gained from being on the mountaintop. And yet there are strange feelings of confusion, frustration and discouragement. Returning to my home in the valley means I must leave the high adventure behind. I am glad to be home, but confused about my longing for just a little while longer on the road. At first I try and retell the tales from each peak we climbed. But I can never adequately explain the events and experiences to those who remained in the valley. How can I explain the formation of the dark and threatening clouds that left me feeling vulnerable, or the sunset that left me longing for it to continue indefinitely. How can I describe the wrinkled, leathery skin of the woman who served lunch at a tiny café in the Oregon outback? What do I say about the dozen shades of green evident in a single glance as I speed by a stand of trees bordering the creek in a shadowy valley?  How do I accurately explain the warm and comfortable camaraderie of my fellow adventurers?

The truth is that adventures can never fully be explained. Like riding a roller coaster, the best description may simply be "Wow!”, or no words at all. The stories I can tell are subjective dramatizations of the best my recollection can conjure. If I exaggerate what occurred, it is for effect and out of frustration that I cannot recreate the feelings. If I understate, it may simply be a lack of adequate words that force lame narrative. In the end, the more extraordinary the adventure the more both the storyteller and the listeners will remain frustrated. The storyteller because his words have failed to capture the vibrancy of the scenes, and the listeners because they were not there and cannot fully enter in.

Confronting the valley of reality often leaves little satisfaction. There is a longing to return to thin, cold air of the mountain meadow where a doe and her faun nuzzle the long grass yet remain ever vigilant. There is a sadness because I cannot bring the mountaintop into the valley.  But I must return to the valley a different person, which can change the valley.

I have learned lessons from my adventure in the mountains. I have found my way along trails, through time-worn towns and across sagebrush plains.  And I can point the way for others to go and thrill at knowing the mystery themselves.  I can bring the magnetic power of the mountain to change those in the valley as it has changed me.  Perhaps my Parkinson's disease can be the adventure of the mountaintop that I can bring back to the valley so that others may venture to the peak with less fear.

Fear not the valley, for it exists to make the mountain what it is.

Parkinson’s and the Art of Getting Better

I met an old friend the other day who, after a somewhat awkward handshake, asked me the typical, polite throwaway question, "how are you?" Feeling in a particularly self-disclosing mood, and assessing the risk as minimal, I divulged my PD diagnosis, to which he responded, "I would not have noticed. Is it progressing?". With no more than a tinge of sadness, I admit, "As is inevitable, it is getting worse."

Every day, often without realizing it, I conduct a self-assessment. Is my tremor worse? Am I stiffer than I was last week? Are there any telltale signs of new symptoms, such as problems with balance, shuffling gait or (shudder) cognitive dysfunction? Inevitably, at the end of each inquiry, I become resigned to the conclusion, "I am getting worse!" Slowly, like the flow of lava creeping toward a waiting village, Parkinson’s will increasingly have its destructive way. That is just the way it is. Fact. So what do I say to myself in response to this less than thrilling prospect? Get over it? Just give up. Ignore it? Get used to it? Fight back!

From time to time I admit using all of the above self-talk phrases, plus a few too personal to list here. Such is my human experience. But what makes my impending PD peril so different than that of every other human being? After all, who after the age of about 50 doesn’t to some extent have to admit, “I am getting worse.” Maybe not in pervasive ways like those who deal with diseases leading to premature death or disability. But in small ways, perhaps from our teen or early 20 something years, we are somewhat in a state of decline. Who of us after 50 find it easy to: Stay fighting trim? Avoid telltale wrinkles? Summon up more energy? Have broader and more inquisitive thoughts? No, not most of us as we are all living with the metaphorical white sand filling up the bottom of the hourglass. That is just the way it is. Fact. And your response to that is…?

So whether you have PD, MS, ALS or some other acronym-labeled disease, or simply recognize life for what it is, we are all in similar boats, headed downstream at an ever-increasing speed, or so it seems. The question remains, how do you grapple with this fact?

So when I am asked by some unsuspecting friend, acquaintance or stranger, “How are you?”, I automatically think of the day’s self-assessment, and am prone to answer, in effect, "I am getting worse". Few would disagree with that analysis, often eliciting a pitying, "I am so sorry". But if that is the only reality that I acknowledge, it is my choice. Perhaps my response is reflective of my belief that I am in fact getting worse. But am I?

I was challenged after that chance interaction with an old friend on the street corner in downtown Vancouver to reevaluate my response to him. Yes, my Parkinson's disease is progressing. It is, in fact, "getting worse". But am I getting worse? I suddenly realized that in answering the way I had I was replacing who I am, the I, with the Parkinson's disease that I have. In other words, I was letting the disease define me.

I am not "getting worse". I am getting better. I am better at relating to and caring about people who are hurting, grieving, suffering loss, feeling overwhelmed, or just plain sad. I am better at being patient with people who are slower at driving, moving, thinking or responding. I am better at remaining silent in recognition that I do not really have anything useful to say. I am better at taking advantage of opportunities that present themselves today, rather than putting them off. I am better at accepting the difficulties of life, recognizing that they can make me stronger, wiser and a better person.

I am committed to getting better.

We Are More

We shuffle past,
Small steps
Accelerate
To keep upright,
Fearful of falling forward.
Then heeding hidden signs
We stop.
Stuck. Stiff.
Stone still
For no apparent reason.
Rigid like
Some street performer statue
Waiting as we tremble,
Hands and head
Refusing to relax,
Some hidden motors
Idling rough
Cause constant shudders.

But we are more
Than famous Michael,
Or Muhammad,
Or others who need not explain
That slow and slurring speech
Is not a mind gone numb,
Or worse,
But simply disobedience
Of rogue thoughts
Not remaining on their path.

And we are more
Than seniors
Struggling to smile,
Or flex a frozen muscle.
We can be young,
Of any race or creed
Who face a failing future
Far too soon,
Who lose our livelihoods
Before our plans are formed,
And fret the needs
Of loved ones
Unfulfilled.

No, we are more
Than those who suffer silently
And covet hope
Of cure
Or surgical invasion
Or some pills to pop to stop
Momentum of this cruel disease
That nags our waking hours
And sabotages sleep
With sadness.

And we are more
Than islands,
Floating far offshore
To leave your continent
Untouched for long.
We ring the bells
Not for ourselves
But you
Who soon may touch a silver strand
Or none,
And face the waning winter days.

As we are leaders
In the march to living well
When days are short.
We challenged few,
With faith
And wisdom born of pain,
Bring back reports
Of struggles with the enemy,
Whose terror tactics
Would spread fear
Were we not brave
And battle-ready,
Sharing all the secrets
We have learned through loss.

Yes, we are more
Than conquerors
With gritted teeth
And storied wounds.
For we have much to give
Our pride-filled world,
To teach of loss
And mourning
With resolve,
And barter breadth
For depth,
Trade selfishness
For sacrifice,
A better goal by far.

We are much more
Than diagnostic labels
Lacking names
And dreams
And futures.
For we are needed
More, much more,
To show the way
On life’s unraveled edges,
All in need of living,
To discover
We are more.

Apathy to Optimism - My Parkinson's Pendulum

Parkinson’s disease can test the toughest and most hardened, playing havoc with your emotions. Over time, the Parkinson's pendulum picks up speed. Sometimes it is like a swing, pushed so hard that it reaches a near horizontal plane at both ends. It is then that I feel insecure, a sense of being out of control. Yes, there is a rush as I speed from one emotional pinnacle to the next, from push to pull and back again. But I wonder each time that I fly by the safety of the ground, who or what is pushing me out of control. Or am I simply pumping my own legs to achieve the heady heights and speed.

Life with PD has been like that lately. One minute there is exhilaration at the challenge, and the next discouragement. I move with ever-increasing velocity from enthusiasm to apathy, optimism to cynicism, ready to take on the future then over-burdened by the present. I know it is related to the PD, whether it be the disease itself, the medications, or the psychological reaction to the uncertain but inevitably compromised future.

And yet there are moments, like now, when the spin cycle slows enough for me to gather my thoughts and remember my commitment to being positive. You see, I realized that it must be a commitment, a decision, for there are those who will beckon me to visit the land of negativity, all the while gripping their own half-empty glasses. They seek to defeat any sunshine that might creep ever so tentatively from behind the cloud that is raining on every parade it can find.

At every step along the path of Parkinson's there are choices I have to make. Will I be brought down by the pending problems, or buoyed up by the challenge to find the silver lining. Will I, by words and attitude, choose to encourage others and myself, or fall into the pit of despair, self-pity and depression? In a phrase, will I be positively Parkinson’s or sadly resigned?

Of course, this vacillation in living goes to the very core of who we are. It forces us, even if we do not face the challenges of a debilitating and degenerative disease such as PD, to ask serious questions we fear because we do not have adequate answers. What or who will we put our faith in? At the risk of "wasting" our time, energy and money, what investments in the future will we make? Despite how we may feel; hurt, alienated, angry, or isolated, how will we live each day such that each person we touch will feel cared for? These are not questions that can be answered once and then never revisited. Curious, but that is the way it is with most important issues. They must form part of the fabric of our lives, demanding of us a response, a commitment, a decision, on a continuing basis.

The emotional swing goes forward then backward. For every action there is a potential reaction. Most of my reactions are ill-considered, emotionally-driven and self-centered. But I have learned that it is often better to feel the sting, take the punch, and study the source so that my responses can be reasoned, tactful, sensitive and caring. It is the way I can slow the swing of the pendulum to a measured pace.

It is my prayer that the start of a new month will be an opportunity to re-commit to the goal of living out my Parkinson's positively rather than succumbing to cynicism. Let me point the way to Hope and in the process replace the panic and pain of the pendulum's swing with peace and purpose.

Bucket List - 2010

What are you looking forward to?

Although it is raining outside tonight, the weather in this brand-new year has not been excessively rainy. And the snow has managed to make only the briefest of appearances. Despite the gloom and gray of threatening skies, there must be a reason why this time of year causes me to think about my "bucket list". While it seems a strange and somewhat morbid fascination, or even addiction, I find a growing excitement when contemplating what might be struck from that list in the year ahead.

If you remember the Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman movie (The Bucket List), the 2 main characters recognized their mortality and realized that time was inevitably running out. What does one do when one faces that reality? Some would sigh and bemoan the fact that they cannot do everything they would like before they "kick the bucket". Others would simply ignore the reality of the clock winding down, effectively denying the inevitable, and continue to live life in the same fashion as it had been lived before. But, recognizing the value of the time we have to live, some of us make a "bucket list".

Whatever "kick the bucket" originally meant, and whatever one believes about the afterlife, there is certainly merit in those of us with Parkinson's disease asking the question, "what do I want to do now that I may not be able to do in the future?" In my experience, and I expect and that of others, there are a multitude of rather phenomenal benefits that occur from answering this question and then working on the resulting list.

The first benefit is that one's priorities are committed to writing.  In many cases the real important things in life are not written down. This is what triggers the imagination of the characters in the movie. The really important stuff of living is often subverted to the urgent or obligatory demands that confront us daily. Somehow it seems selfish to answer the question, "What is really important to me?"  But what could be more important than asking and answering that question?

Secondly, making and pursuing a bucket list gives one focus, a sense of priority, something to look forward to.  Rather than simply anticipating the inevitable deterioration of our physical and mental functioning, we can concentrate on living life to the fullest, as may to some extent be defined by our circumstances, but is often most limited by our choices. This exercise gives purpose beyond the daily regime we often fall into, rather than choose.

Thirdly, you can take it from me, and others who have pursued marking items off their own bucket lists, that the enjoyment and sense of achievement is thrilling. It leaves a legacy of stories to tell and encouragement for others to reach beyond their comfort zone into a land of hopes and dreams that can come true. I have found that my list has grown even as I have checked off items each year. And with it my desire to seize the day. Carpe diem! Some of my friends with Parkinson's have grasped this rallying cry, making it their solemn commitment in the fight against the corrosive effects of the disease. Every goal accomplished is a strike against the our opponent.

Fourthly, but not finally as there are too many results to discuss here, by listing the items our hearts desire we can begin to see how very much there is that we can do, instead of focusing on what we cannot do. It is in this way that we can defeat the enemy of hopelessness that so often hides in the shadows of this disease that seeks to take from us the life we had, and thought we would have.

Go around the world. Visit friends or relatives or the home you have not seen since you were a child. Write a book. Skydive or scuba dive. Go to Antarctica. Get a degree. Learn a new art, hobby, skill or language. Climb a mountain (not me!).  What are you really looking forward to this year?

Left Handed Attitude

Every time I try to write, shampoo my hair, brush my teeth or eat, I need to do an attitude check.

I am right handed. Ironically, the PD affects only my right side...so far. I know the left is waiting for its debut in the PD pantomime. Over the 3+ years since my diagnosis (and second opinion..."yup, positively Parkinson's"), I have progressively lost the dexterity and agility of my right hand. It's not useless. It just refuses to fluidly form the letters on the page. At best I print in wobbly letters because writing is impossible and even my signature is different each time (the bank calls regularly).

In the shower my right hand stays stubbornly in one place atop my head as my left hand is forced to do all the work rubbing the shampoo into my hair. This results in an odd sensation as I stand there with one hand foolishly poised to act but remaining motionless.

Right-handed teeth brushing works only if I get the tempo right, and then keep it that way (although I expect that when I see the dental hygienist she may not give me any prize for efficiency).

And eating is almost entirely a left-handed affair, lest I sprinkle soup, salad or spaghetti sauce all over me, the table and anyone who sits too close...although meals would take longer and this might assist my diet by limiting intake.

Even typing this entry is mostly a left-handed endeavour (with the right hand joining in on occasion with a halting stab at the supposedly correct key). Usually I use voice-recognition software (Dragon Naturally Speaking) to ease the frustration of what I need to do daily at work.

This brings me to 'attitude'. My initial response to this forced, late in life learning to be a southpaw is utter frustration (euphemism for anger). Inside I am saying, "I hate this! I used to be able to do this without thinking. Now I am a klutz." But slowly (sometimes at the tortoise speed of westbound traffic on the Port Mann Bridge at 7 AM), I remember that I am still able to function independently. If I can't get a grip (so to speak) on the small stuff now, I will end up an angry old man lashing out at those that are around to help me. That is not me, or at least it has never been me. And it is certainly not who I want to become.

Although I disagree with some of her New Age conclusions, Byron Katie's book, "Loving What Is" has some very good points to think about. She says, "It's not the problem that causes our suffering; it's our thinking about the problem." In other words, it is not my PD, it is the way I think about it that is the cause of my frustration. Maybe this sounds a little twisted, but if that is not true, how can I avoid getting increasingly angry as my right hand becomes increasingly inept?

So today, and every day, as I relegate tasks to my now stronger more capable left hand, I remember to be thankful. I have two hands. If one does not work perfectly, at least I can tie shoelaces, drive my motorcycle, pick up my grandson, shake hands firmly, and hold my wife's hand as we walk. Tomorrow will bring what it may. Life, just as it is a God-given gift with daily dividends, also takes away something every day. We cannot be happy if we resent the latter, for it is a, dare I say, necessary part of living.

For me, learning a left handed attitude is a key to being positively Parkinson's.