A mistake must have been made. I was an imposter. No doubt that error would shortly be discovered
and I would be plucked from the platform like a false feather hiding amidst the
plumage of a peacock. And yet all I saw
was warm smiles that normally would have made me feel at ease. It all seemed too strange to be real.
I’ve always known that pride puts one on a pillar from which
one is ever prone to plummet to disgrace.
Accolades and honours can so easily feed the insatiable appetite of
egotism. Acclaim and adulation create
addictions and false realities. What is
more frightening is the fact that all of us, at some time or other, seek
attention and applause to assuage our insecurity. Despite our self-proclaimed humility the
allure of the limelight casts its spell.
Five minutes of fame? “Not me”, I
delude myself.
That’s the trouble with recognition. It betrays our weakness, our need for
appreciation…and maybe more. In our
eagerness to be accepted, acknowledged and approved of we become skillful at unobtrusively
introducing our accomplishments in public.
Why? Why must we be patted on the
back? Why must we, like children in the
playground swinging high or running fast, proclaim, “Look at me. Look at me”?
Why is it so difficult to deal humbly with victory and success, and
shamelessly with defeat and failure?
As the challenges of Parkinson’s disease continue to mount, and
others look on sympathetically, the battle between humility and hubris builds. We seem to tightly clutch our titles and our
trophies, anticipating anonymity. Past
pinnacles of success seem to crumble, replaced by crevices of self-doubt. It is as if our shuffling, stiffening and
shaking betray the clever schemes we use to hide our obvious inadequacy.
Four weeks ago on that auditorium platform amidst professorial
splendor, wearing my newly acquired academic regalia, an honorary doctorate of
laws was conferred on me. I was
conflicted and confused. Like most, I
have a problem responding well to a compliment, let alone an honor such as this. Sincerity and humility hung in the balance. Self-evaluation of either proved impossible. So I imagined the face of my departed Father smiling
from the audience, even as my mother in the front row smiled in fact and shed a
tear. His approval was enough. And when congratulations came I shook each
hand as if it were my Dad’s, and heard his silent warning, “Now be careful lest
you fall, son.”
Posts
I like what you have writen ... so well.
ReplyDeleteI have saved a copy and also passed on the url
Thanks,
I read Still Alice last week, and it is about a woman professor at Harvard who is diagnosed with alzheimer's. She is a language or linguistic professor, and she is the one that saw herself changing and went alone to get diagnosed and kept it from her husband as long as possible. This story is told from her point of view to give us a glimmer of what a patient goes through. That is why I like your blog, it does the same thing and is read, not fictitious. Anyway one of the chapters is similar to this. She is going to a graduation at Harvard. Both she and her husband wear the regalia, except by this time she has no idea why they are dressed for Halloween. At the end one of the graduate students comes to her and thanks her for all she's meant to him and how she was the one that inspired him to get another degree. She is thinking "who is this person?" but she enjoys the compliments. At the end of his little thank-you speech he says something to the effect, I know you won't remember this, so I've typed it out for you to keep and read as often as you want to know how remarkable a person you are. I thought that was so great. Your post reminded me of that scene. Keep helping us, even those not going through PD but other diagnoses where we see life changes.
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