tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10269662221791810042024-03-16T11:53:08.074-07:00POSITIVELY PARKINSON'SParkinson's Disease -
Challenges and EncouragementBob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.comBlogger351125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-42985432606294669012020-08-11T20:12:00.002-07:002020-08-11T20:14:38.717-07:00Jump!<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Both of us stood in the hot sun on a very small
platform secured 50 feet (20 m) up in a large pine tree. We were looking anywhere
but straight down.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFI2AqVvMOwW9uWYjKfdmBvlQIIRxxs0E89mEnfJQe_9qTtToI4C-OSWlGtxSueIC3IS_2jGPQJSKzC6f60rflE9rthG6rejb5ch_mJRvGTj239RU0TxyFdu3qj_MbmSsg-Bf1FlDNn9rQ/s2048/IMG_1740.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFI2AqVvMOwW9uWYjKfdmBvlQIIRxxs0E89mEnfJQe_9qTtToI4C-OSWlGtxSueIC3IS_2jGPQJSKzC6f60rflE9rthG6rejb5ch_mJRvGTj239RU0TxyFdu3qj_MbmSsg-Bf1FlDNn9rQ/w307-h410/IMG_1740.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">We were an unlikely
pair to be perched and shaking for somewhat different reasons on the last
obstacle on the aerial ropes course. Given
the age difference, it is understandable that we approach mortality, and
threats to it, quite differently. For Patrick, my 11-year-old grandson, he can prove
that he can overcome his fear and conquer something he has never done before.
On the other hand, I am dealing with the increasing intensity of symptoms due
to Parkinson’s disease. At 68 years’ old, I need to face the fear that soon I
may not be able to enjoy such adventures.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">As part of a four-day adventure, Patrick and I started
out on the first day by riding 350 km to my hometown, Vernon, British Columbia,
on my Spyder. On our way into town, I noticed a large billboard advertisement
for a zip line and ropes course. “That might be exciting for the two of us to try”,
I said to myself. <img height="360" src="https://www.oyamazipline.com/images/content/aerial_park/Oyama-obstacles-1800-2019.jpg" width="590" /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Patrick was game so we arrived early the
following morning to scope out the place. Before we knew it, we were putting on
the necessary safety harnesses and helmets and receiving our instructions and
made our way to the first of the three courses.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">We both managed to complete the “green course“,
where the cables or ropes on which we balanced were strung from tree to tree at
a height of only 15 to 20 feet (6 m). It was challenging, but not frightening.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Next, was the “blue course”. Twice as high, our
safety harnesses definitely proved to be necessary. On several occasions, I
found myself dangling as if caught in a spider’s web, straining to find a way
back onto a stable cable to rest and recover my strength to continue. We
managed to complete the series of short zip lines that sent us literally
zipping from one tree to another. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsOSOtoyu2oc34esY18f_YmJizTHKIFVFmigbDhPLQDMFR059geb2B0zcawphyphenhyphenTLB4FqBwU_bNQiohLbcd7LFjLm65X69wETWTQ9UhtoMd9HRxjbh5tHekz_K05MHEJjFL8ZmIEjlt0fBy/s2048/IMG_1752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsOSOtoyu2oc34esY18f_YmJizTHKIFVFmigbDhPLQDMFR059geb2B0zcawphyphenhyphenTLB4FqBwU_bNQiohLbcd7LFjLm65X69wETWTQ9UhtoMd9HRxjbh5tHekz_K05MHEJjFL8ZmIEjlt0fBy/w248-h329/IMG_1752.jpg" width="248" /></a>After resting our tired arms and legs, we moved
to the last course, the ultimate challenge, the “black course”. Patrick noted that, as opposed to the lower
courses, he was the youngest black course challenger, while I appeared to be
the oldest.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">The beginning portions of the black course were
similar to the first two courses, just twice as high off the ground, and twice
as challenging. The final “obstacle” however is a free fall from 50 feet up,
held only by a bungee cord device to which you attached your safety harness. It
was, supposedly, able to halt your downward plunge just before hitting the
ground.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTyyhl5lmIx6WQ89tWhTUt1NbkMCkqFVjy1T1Up5ZRGHQj2bUA-jxsikYaTbFbst1LqRxxlhT9hADSVAEmgIT3MS7fpyeV7ivObsZLYaFpUMIa-gKEZPS7sSLtMysYGdvp1miVL2PyqkQG/s2048/IMG_1736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTyyhl5lmIx6WQ89tWhTUt1NbkMCkqFVjy1T1Up5ZRGHQj2bUA-jxsikYaTbFbst1LqRxxlhT9hADSVAEmgIT3MS7fpyeV7ivObsZLYaFpUMIa-gKEZPS7sSLtMysYGdvp1miVL2PyqkQG/w246-h328/IMG_1736.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Patrick was first up. He stood on the edge of
the platform for a long time, looking down at what seemed like a very long
distance. He hesitated, despite the cheering and encouragement from our guide
and others on the ground. I heard them shouting, “Come on Patrick. 3 – 2 – 1 – jump!" I found myself adding my voice to those below
with words something like, “You can do it. Don’t let it beat you.” Little did
he know that I was saying those words for my own benefit as much as for his
encouragement. But his response startled me. “Push me,” he said. I immediately
had two thoughts: first, this situation is not in the book, “How To Care for your
Grandkids,” and second, it didn’t require much in the way of legal reasoning to
conclude that if something went wrong I would certainly be blamed.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Realizing I had to encourage him to take the
leap (but not compel him to do so), I reverted to Patrick’s original strategy: the
countdown method. Although it had previously failed, when I reached the final “Jump!”
he bravely pushed off from the platform and plummeted downward until the bungee
apparatus interrupted the fall before Patrick hit the forest floor. Success!</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Now it was my turn. I hesitated, but only long
enough to realize that I had no excuse. Looking down, with no one to give the
final countdown, I whispered to myself the advice given by our instructor at
the beginning: “Trust your equipment”. I stepped off the platform, surprised at
how fast I fell, and equally surprised at how fast my descent halted, well
before I hit the ground.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Later, as Patrick and I returned the safety
harnesses and helmets, we were both thrilled to have conquered our fears. Our next adventure? Skydiving?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xjuRf1tnlUjxIPb5KVr0u68XkCsJ9poKNed7uAx2QY-0A01fzkv2zGexlzibvGSnM5MhZ5IBUsaOLDSHk7Dd0iq7nf_SVbyGhd2EeLw2VcPvD3Zg2gQJurYPU651WAKn_HIbbdtldw-L/s2048/IMG_1738.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xjuRf1tnlUjxIPb5KVr0u68XkCsJ9poKNed7uAx2QY-0A01fzkv2zGexlzibvGSnM5MhZ5IBUsaOLDSHk7Dd0iq7nf_SVbyGhd2EeLw2VcPvD3Zg2gQJurYPU651WAKn_HIbbdtldw-L/w246-h328/IMG_1738.jpg" width="246" /></a></p>Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-48925873672754758662020-08-05T14:35:00.000-07:002020-08-05T14:35:58.397-07:00Escaping the Pandemic<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps you have tried during the recent months to be positive, patient, even philosophical,
but it just has not worked well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since mid-March, society seems to have been slogging through the swamp of Covid-19.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Are you</span> growing tired of reacting
to constant cancellations; weddings, celebrations, travel plans, social
gatherings, and even memorial services? Do you feel constantly reminded that we are in the grip of an unprecedented, unpredictable, and so far unstoppable, pandemic, and will be with us
for some time yet?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqyh3ojmNu_3X2a17U_RGzMI5_BIrwjDEfQZcu2YH3Kp_adva1vWSvutut_QjjCLrMqAufsmJgIog-LAiDnTw2zQcZd8iegMoVMy-AUNnlz8iaIJ3Mf2fsDZjR-5STwRfJJlfew65r-nF/s300/covid.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqyh3ojmNu_3X2a17U_RGzMI5_BIrwjDEfQZcu2YH3Kp_adva1vWSvutut_QjjCLrMqAufsmJgIog-LAiDnTw2zQcZd8iegMoVMy-AUNnlz8iaIJ3Mf2fsDZjR-5STwRfJJlfew65r-nF/s0/covid.jpg" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you are anything like me, you may have tried to tell yourself that this is an opportunity to
accomplish some of the items on your “when I have time” list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But without the press of deadlines, I find myself using excuses borrowed from the growing list generated by those seemingly trying to lower expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> iI hear, </span>“We just have to
make the best of it."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As a person with Parkinson's disease I understand that phrase and I think I know what it takes to have a positive attitude and focus considerable effort to combat overwhelming circumstances. Nevertheless, for me at least, I need a plan, an extraordinary event that I can look forward to with anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need confirmation that life offers more
than waiting for the end of isolation and nurturing the distant hope of a cure or vaccination.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>It was not without some fear of cancellation, and further discouragement, that I
set out on my Spyder (like a motorcycle but with two wheels on the front) to see
where the road would take me.</span><span> </span><span>Even
though it was only a 5 day trip into the interior of British Columbia, with time
in the Rocky Mountains, which form much of the jagged border between BC and the
Alberta, it was an escape, a breaking free of the imprisonment of the past four months.</span><span> </span><span>I loved it, all 3700 km of it.</span><span> </span><span>Even when it rained for 3 hours straight on the way
from Prince George to McBride I found myself smiling.</span><span> </span><span>I did not complain, but rather found myself laughing, when it took me 15 minutes to peel off my sweat-soaked T-shirt after a
day of riding in 33-Celsius degree temperatures.</span><span> The mini-vacation left me rejuvenated. It</span><span> was pure joy.</span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVowxpneh1GzXovPwiMzCLvHsJZClQcK12XXbgmHnUaIv5YsWaF1iFhObuAm4OGKFeumRIL-iTXa68oRB02B4UTLb0qOb2HDTGE8o2E_0MmMbCWtJ8cK-DV34LyQFuZvjR91Q7a6oBDpN/s2048/spyder+3.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVowxpneh1GzXovPwiMzCLvHsJZClQcK12XXbgmHnUaIv5YsWaF1iFhObuAm4OGKFeumRIL-iTXa68oRB02B4UTLb0qOb2HDTGE8o2E_0MmMbCWtJ8cK-DV34LyQFuZvjR91Q7a6oBDpN/w328-h246/spyder+3.jpg" width="328" /></a></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The uninterrupted “helmet time” was soul-refreshing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hours of riding in silence, feeling the cool
shade of endless forests, taking in the snow-peaked mountains, it left me in
awe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are indeed experiences much
more overwhelming than the distraction of a coronavirus. I encourage you to give it some thought.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next?</p>Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-45314349079222574702020-07-19T15:54:00.000-07:002020-07-19T15:54:21.207-07:00The Big One That Got Away<p class="MsoNormal">We had hooked a big one. A large halibut, maybe 80 pounds or
more. The fishing rod seemed to almost bend in half while I leaned back and held
on with both hands, the butt of the rod digging painfully into my waistline.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINdo8ZUwavBnxfPG4qzN6c7BZmoCcHXKVhAeedVm9NeukEg5ZT3tuz5jQ548Bi7swK3YaEcymX0ajGVFDVT6uM4h5x4jrXHg2hRgpXyFwTN_TUlKDVhb3D7jZBssxiTrHCaMUPP3kFKZ1/s2048/fishing+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINdo8ZUwavBnxfPG4qzN6c7BZmoCcHXKVhAeedVm9NeukEg5ZT3tuz5jQ548Bi7swK3YaEcymX0ajGVFDVT6uM4h5x4jrXHg2hRgpXyFwTN_TUlKDVhb3D7jZBssxiTrHCaMUPP3kFKZ1/s320/fishing+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
“Let it run. Let it run.” Shouted Keith, our fishing guide. I let go of the
reel handle … too slowly. It rapped my
knuckles as if punishing me for holding back the catch that was swimming away
for its life. After less than a minute or two the line went slack as if the
fish was resting or hesitating, wondering which way to go to shake off the hook
I hoped was buried in its mouth.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My legs and arms were already stiff. But I needed to reel the
line onto the spool, taking advantage of the momentary indecision on the part
of my quarry. I was constantly at the ready to release my grip on the reel handle
if my prize catch decided to make a run for it again. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While it had only been a few minutes, I was exhausted. The
Parkinson’s-induced stiffness resulted in my tremors moving into overdrive. I
was worried I would lose the fish, while at the same time I wanted to prove I
could land a trophy despite the limitations imposed on me by my Parkinson’s
disease. But discretion won over my ego and I called for my friend, Jim, to
take over the rod. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No sooner had the handoff taken place than the reel started
spinning, the line whining off the spool as it played out, quickly approaching
its limit of 300 feet. “That’s no halibut”, shouted Keith as he got his knife
out to cut the line before the rod and reel were yanked from Jim’s grip and
dragged into the ocean. We all felt the defeat as the knife sliced through the
tense 80-pound test fishing line, leaving the lure and hook embedded as a
souvenir in the mouth of the one that got away, whatever it was.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6yjcndnAn_4dYtMQ4IBoSivlVg9mx7eLgykv003pajHkU-dWa8Rwozgzkf1nro0N53xbnlUhFnS48iynQIGQaBKl_J4v6LvHQgtD2UfyCrehdWlctAMuEz3pdxX0wUcMkEEVcEsNt4wd/s276/sea+lion+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6yjcndnAn_4dYtMQ4IBoSivlVg9mx7eLgykv003pajHkU-dWa8Rwozgzkf1nro0N53xbnlUhFnS48iynQIGQaBKl_J4v6LvHQgtD2UfyCrehdWlctAMuEz3pdxX0wUcMkEEVcEsNt4wd/s0/sea+lion+2.jpg" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We all stared astern, looking rather woeful when Keith
raised his arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was pointing at a
large black head that had popped to the ocean surface some 200 feet away. It
was a sea lion. Doubtless, it had sunk its teeth into our trophy halibut,
dragging “our lunch”, the hook and all the line we had, finishing it off outside
the reach of our puny rod and reel.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While we resented losing the battle, we had to admit that we
were the intruders, and that the natural hunter had made the catch.
Acknowledging defeat is a humbling exercise, but it is, whether facing
Parkinson’s disease or some other dominating opponent, one we must accept with
the right attitude. Tomorrow, we will fight again.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbeSBb8Xk03NpH7qT5SJEH3oHymuC7qSKv2EVvJg8Y6JIkmoHT9b4vgISc0-D2U-DES99svPrJG8RpqL0lyLMRRrZlYEUSCgjpIDoOTSBYTInCady3sLnnWpg7DrD9WWXHEiWR0rN8JXkY/s2048/fishing+sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbeSBb8Xk03NpH7qT5SJEH3oHymuC7qSKv2EVvJg8Y6JIkmoHT9b4vgISc0-D2U-DES99svPrJG8RpqL0lyLMRRrZlYEUSCgjpIDoOTSBYTInCady3sLnnWpg7DrD9WWXHEiWR0rN8JXkY/s320/fishing+sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><o:p></o:p><p></p><br />Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-44057744153726025592020-07-12T19:17:00.001-07:002020-07-12T19:23:17.833-07:00The Message Is in the Mask<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">What
is she hiding, a smile or a frown? The black
mask covers the lower half of her face, leaving me in doubt, even a little
apprehensive. My imagination leaves me with numerous possibilities.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_ye5pSL501Jr_8m8rIhw8xNNMPElRS5-Q4YnwB48NyknPS1TLn2monxbuvi4v59YjtIuB88oyPKw8kC5tpJygR6TsD8k_n05iRRIb5ztOFIGcB9Qh8ezbMRYbJNByyYRegn5hizfR0xM/s279/waitress+mask+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_ye5pSL501Jr_8m8rIhw8xNNMPElRS5-Q4YnwB48NyknPS1TLn2monxbuvi4v59YjtIuB88oyPKw8kC5tpJygR6TsD8k_n05iRRIb5ztOFIGcB9Qh8ezbMRYbJNByyYRegn5hizfR0xM/s0/waitress+mask+3.jpg" /></a></div><p style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">Is this a
veil to maintain some mystery, keeping it secret until the moment of dramatic
disclosure? On the other hand, is it a disguise, hiding the truth, prohibiting
transparency? The words she uses are friendly enough as we enter the
restaurant. She shows us to our designated table and asks us what we would like
to drink. I wanted to know more about the young woman behind the mask. Yet, I dare not ask too many questions.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">As
our enjoyment of the first “dine in” meal we have shared for several months moves along, I have the increasing sense that our server is enjoying being able to hide
behind the mandatory mask. It is as if she is observing us from a distance, silently
questioning why we are attending this masquerade without wearing the
obligatory masks.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">Such
a simple thing; a small swatch of cloth covering the chin, mouth and nose. And
yet it leaves me feeling wary and uncertain. Of course, knowing from endless media
and medical authorities that these masks are for our protection, and the
protection of others to whom we might spread the villain virus. But, is there
more?</span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Masks. They complicate communication by removing some of the most important nonverbal cues
we rely on every day. We are prone to step back from full engagement with those
who cover their faces, fearful of potential misunderstanding. For me, wearing
hearing aids already presen</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">ts a challenge. Picking up exact words spoken is almost impossible, especially in noisy env</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">ironments. Normally, even listening
face-to-face, I rely upon lip-reading. Now, add to this the muffling effect of the
mask and I am left feeling anxious, exposed and vulnerable.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKaRWdXIx1q6kql1MkQVuswYEYeBs-gHtwTCHFmxWKBfJGS2ZE_j7rK2uyhGFKEF-fd2VrL4ra0YqZL4mm1Yw0XwPSDd9tNGzl2P-pE_kByi8US7di5532pyv4qZxrhSogYZjfwTVDN4hX/s2048/mask-historic-museum-culture-wallpaper.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKaRWdXIx1q6kql1MkQVuswYEYeBs-gHtwTCHFmxWKBfJGS2ZE_j7rK2uyhGFKEF-fd2VrL4ra0YqZL4mm1Yw0XwPSDd9tNGzl2P-pE_kByi8US7di5532pyv4qZxrhSogYZjfwTVDN4hX/s320/mask-historic-museum-culture-wallpaper.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Of
course, masks have played a variety of roles throughout human history. They
have been used to induce fear, provide protection in battle (or in sports), enable
anonymity, extend regal prominence, entertain, disguise, and cover-up
embarrassment. And now they express confidence in our current obsession to
prevent the spread of communicable diseases. But masks are not neutral.</span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">A study by researchers at Bielefeld University, Germany, considered the covering up of different
parts of the face and found that observers predominantly relied on the eye and
mouth regions when successfully recognizing an emotion. Different
moods were detected from contrasting parts of the face. For instance, sadness
and fear relies on focusing on the eyes, whereas disgust and happiness are
typically detected by concentrating on the mouth area.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And lately, when I see a mask, whether for its
color, design, fit, or incongruity, I think about those in our Parkinson’s disease
community who struggle with what is called the “Parkinson’s mask”. In such cases,
the facial muscles appear frozen and the eyes maintain an expressionless stare. Facial features refuse the brain’s messaging to smile or express emotion. The Parkinson's mask discourages communication, which can encourage self-isolation.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw2KWAQp5liVqDxFqVcXqTwpBiJa33q4retZCewxQCslS3uYB-VuvfmHk-7RcE81v-fOYWSytWS-6YQ8kb5pn4Iwku7lWVXOkl72z4_JeAf0B4LFkWdbhgCoiKk33MUrbmJnImL5E104og/s290/Mohamed+Ali.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw2KWAQp5liVqDxFqVcXqTwpBiJa33q4retZCewxQCslS3uYB-VuvfmHk-7RcE81v-fOYWSytWS-6YQ8kb5pn4Iwku7lWVXOkl72z4_JeAf0B4LFkWdbhgCoiKk33MUrbmJnImL5E104og/s0/Mohamed+Ali.jpg" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Perhaps these days we all wear masks. And it is increasingly our
challenge to discover and engage the person who is behind the mask.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none; color: black; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.5pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 107%; padding: 0in;">The human face
is, after all, nothing more nor less than a mask. – Agatha Christie</span><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none; color: black; line-height: 107%; padding: 0in;"><font face="">. </font></span></p>Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-70633786742381447842020-06-28T20:14:00.001-07:002020-06-28T20:14:38.230-07:00Just Another Ordinary DayWhat day is it?<div><br /></div><div>It may be that Covid 19, which has affected millions
of people, has now redefined the meaning of “daily”. Alternatively, it may just be the constant
reminders that I am aging, like an irritating and insistent buzzing in one’s thoughts
that gets louder and louder. Regardless, over the past
several months I have found that each day, while it may have a different name
(such as Monday, or Friday), number, and month, has become more regimented and
repetitive than ever before. Each day seems to lack serendipity, adventure and
distinctiveness. In a phrase, yesterday, today, and likely tomorrow, become “just
another ordinary day”. There is limited verve, vigour, energy and excitement in
my days as they troop their way through each week. Each day is a soldier, lining
up, one by one from left to right, uniformed and marching seven abreast down
the calendar until reaching month-end when the page is flipped, and the
soldiers disappear only to start the relentless parade down a new page.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just another ordinary day.</p><p class="MsoNormal">But is it really? Is there any such thing as an “ordinary
day”? Perhaps our imprisonment in the “ordinary” is self-imposed. We willingly choose to believe that the
door to the cell is closed, but in truth it remains unlocked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Our freedom to make each day something more than living in a drab cell is our choice. </span>We need only decide to escape the humdrum
interior of our ordinary days. As my parents would remind me on long vacation road
trips, “If you are bored, you have no one to blame but yourself”.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I believe that there is no such thing as an ordinary day,
except for one of our own making. Instead, every moment is filled with
uniqueness. Our days need not drone on like soldiers on parade. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the same way, there is no such thing as an ordinary
person. Just as each day is filled with opportunities and potential, I believe
that each person is uniquely qualified to experience his or her journey of days
as would an explorer.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><img alt="C. S. Lewis on Twitter: "“There are no ordinary people. You have ..." 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" /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, there is security in the routine of an “ordinary
day”. It is predictable and safe. In the same way, being an “ordinary person” living
“ordinary days” frees us from responsibility to make the most out of life. But
we pay a terrible price for enduring the ordinary; guilt, boredom and fear.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What can I do to change my ordinary into extraordinary? My
temptation is to fill my calendar with exciting activities. But, like any false
promise, these episodic experiences are short-lived. No, much more radical
steps are required to ensure that I invest myself, and the hours I have each
day, rather than carelessly spending the precious gift of life that I wake up
to each morning.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To start, we need to recognize that it is never too late to
opt out of ordinariness. The extraordinary is available to us each day. But we
must be willing to search for it, to grasp hold of it, to nurture it, and to
share it. It might be cleverly hidden in the simple, like a smile that
penetrates politeness. Or it might be desperately complex, like taking the
initiative to forgive, or seek forgiveness, to right a wrong.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 21pt; line-height: 107%;"><span> </span>Your life is something
opaque, not transparent, as <span> </span>long as you look at it in an ordinary human way.
<span> </span><span> <span> </span>B</span>ut if you hold it up against the light of God's <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>goodness, it shines and turns
transparent, radiant <span> </span>and bright. And then you ask yourself in <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span></span>amazement: Is this
really my own life I see before <span> </span>me?</span> Albert Schweitzer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">There is no such thing as ordinary. Each of us, and each day that we live, is extraordinary.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /></div>Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-69535321768857733052020-06-21T14:01:00.000-07:002020-06-21T14:01:16.226-07:00The Path<p class="MsoNormal">No one had cleared the path to the stream that ran behind
our house, at least not since my then young children and I had made it
minimally passable some 25 years ago. Even then, it was barely discernible as
it wound its way through the forest to water’s edge. For a number of years, the
rough path had been a source of adventure and discovery, a small pristine
valley not easily accessible to anyone other than our family. Recently, I felt
the need to explore it again.</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmopIwglPdyz-3dvnMNB5qY055eU_hV3scvrfp2CBt1weH6Moh1OQfbYtdGYJdpStoCHTPuPkFu07cY2jTwPQziTVItcArVscmTjX6agVx6Baqxgu3UWwyYQ1WzkEB7Oie-qVTo9edhyFb/s4032/path3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmopIwglPdyz-3dvnMNB5qY055eU_hV3scvrfp2CBt1weH6Moh1OQfbYtdGYJdpStoCHTPuPkFu07cY2jTwPQziTVItcArVscmTjX6agVx6Baqxgu3UWwyYQ1WzkEB7Oie-qVTo9edhyFb/w240-h320/path3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">As I stood alone looking down the steep pathway, I observed
that a lot had changed in a quarter-century. Regardless, I saw no danger. The first
portion of the pathway looked easy enough; a 20-foot section down which I slid,
my street shoes giving me no grip on the steep incline. About halfway down the
embankment I remembered it was here years ago that my kids had tried to make a
sled track on a rare snowy day. Citing
safety issues, I was the first to try out the snow-packed run. I soon found out that I was right to be
concerned. There was no easy way to stop the sled ride except by plunging into
a huge blackberry patch, minus the leaves but not minus the thorns.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, this time I was able to grab a large cottonwood
tree trunk to stop my descent and avoid another tangle with the older and much
bigger blackberry patch. The tree I was clinging to proved to be a memorable
marker as it is where the path took a sharp turn and proceeded laterally across
the face of the steep slope. When I started out on that portion of the path,
there were only a few smaller twigs and limbs covering up the trail. But as I
dropped towards the bottom of the small valley I found that the path was almost
completely overgrown. The path seemed to lead in numerous different directions
at the same time. Although each of the choices looked promising, they all ultimately
led to a dead end amid the dense underbrush, fallen trees and patches of
stinging nettle<s>s</s>. I could not seem to locate any of the familiar natural
markers I had expected to find, like the partly decomposed log I had once
stepped on, infuriating the occupants of a wasp’s nest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The angered wasps proceeded to attack my two
younger children, causing frantic screams and burning red welts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That event became a long remembered, often
recited chapter in our family history.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The brush had become so dense that I could not see the
river. Instead of the noisy chatter of the water rushing over and around boulders
and collapsed tree trunks, all I heard was intermittent gurgling off in the
distance. Breaking the relative silence, my cell phone rang. “Where are you?”
my concerned wife asked. “In the forest behind the house, but I am not sure
where” I replied, “But I’ll be home in a few minutes”.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">It was difficult to speed up my
pace to reach the river, so I thought I would try walking along a fallen tree,
like a bridge lifting me above the dense underbrush and marshy areas. However,
one thing that people with Parkinson’s rarely do well is balance. In this case,
I proved the point by falling off the log, toppling 3 or 4 feet to the ground,
landing unceremoniously on my derrière. The struggle to regain my footing
amidst the mud, skunk cabbage and wild rose thorns proved painful and
time-consuming. But once on my feet again I was able to get my bearings. I
finally found what appeared to be a very small deer path that wove its way
along a circuitous route, leading to the riverbank. What would have taken me
seven or eight minutes’ years ago, took over 30 minutes, and that was only one
way! With no time to enjoy the fruits of my labor, I set off on the return
trip.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While the path did bring back memories, it also left me
exhausted, with my clothes soaked through with sweat, and my body bruised,
scraped and scratched. Indeed, a lot has changed over the last 25 years, on the
path and with me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br />Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-66187193816080875202020-06-07T12:34:00.001-07:002020-06-12T10:47:55.872-07:00Measuring Life in Three Hour Increments<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow", sans-serif;">How do
you measure your life?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWCKYzONTuvPOe-IgT4hjMMzh9K1ap8SZpQVAdt8HoCFjtVk6zMM5c2P-a4HmE1U2sVg9nIv58M3EPRT6cO1Eoe8iRedhCbNGP2XPWB-SPtMnXL3zpvVkf9K3PpBea5qDq9Goe8n53Jbc/s320/time+billing.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="158" data-original-width="320" height="99" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWCKYzONTuvPOe-IgT4hjMMzh9K1ap8SZpQVAdt8HoCFjtVk6zMM5c2P-a4HmE1U2sVg9nIv58M3EPRT6cO1Eoe8iRedhCbNGP2XPWB-SPtMnXL3zpvVkf9K3PpBea5qDq9Goe8n53Jbc/w200-h99/time+billing.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow", sans-serif;">As a
lawyer, I learned early on that each workday was subject to its measurement in
six minute increments. That is, generally, we legal types (as well as many
others in service industries) seem tethered to the concept of what is called
the “billable hour”. Lawyers routinely record their time spent working on a
particular matter/file.<span> </span>Then, their clients
are sent invoices showing the number of hours of work performed, multiplied by
the hourly rate of the professional.<span> </span>The
hourly rate is usually based on seniority, expertise and market conditions. In
this way, the quantity of legal services provided can be measured, albeit
somewhat subjectively. But the quality of the billable time is much more
difficult to assess. Not all billable hours are equal.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow", sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="133" data-original-width="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvi_kyyVLp__d3MTW1GcEOtse5Wd9n2FZSydSkebk5DjIQoWoR65FsbKZAwKXgrmj1XE2o-YxvFGMexXzZpyVDn1iivPLc94-9QEWBJK5c10F3_1cIKhWkxeZvxglIkwCqVwoU4zpK7xD4/" /></div></blockquote></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow", sans-serif;">I think
most people tend to rely on quantitative intervals or measurements. These include not only increments of time but everything in life from monetary
values (salary, cost of gas, bank accounts, and debt) to the number of “likes”
we get on our Facebook page. The disruption of these fixed points on our
calendar or other quantitative measurements can cause us to feel anxious,
uncertain and insecure. At times, especially during this coronavirus pandemic
era, days (and even weeks) slip by, blending into each other without much
notice. Viewed from a quantitative perspective, life itself is evaporating one
day, hour or even minute at a time.</span></p><i><o:p></o:p></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow", sans-serif;">During these
recent pandemic days, I have become increasingly aware of the importance of
evaluating my life based on qualitative assessments, not the quantity of time
spent here and there. I find that, just as it is difficult to measure the
quality of a billable hour, appraising one’s life subjectively is very
challenging, as well as convicting. This process demands that just as we spend
our money on what we deem to be important to us, how we spend our
time (life’s ultimate nonrenewable resource) reveals our priorities.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxPdJq1ZoxVkjbJ1zj9szfQDpCLo8jh6IfaCdMHTF3ziCphzFwwqzznmA0pS5xxc3O3zu8bEeqIIyL0q1ZH8Nssw1G1Kk8XV1ioPbNBjS2NZbIgagmIpfEvqVLLHh9J3l5qD2uuV5MoqSo/s275/time+sunset.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxPdJq1ZoxVkjbJ1zj9szfQDpCLo8jh6IfaCdMHTF3ziCphzFwwqzznmA0pS5xxc3O3zu8bEeqIIyL0q1ZH8Nssw1G1Kk8XV1ioPbNBjS2NZbIgagmIpfEvqVLLHh9J3l5qD2uuV5MoqSo/" /></a></div> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "arial narrow", sans-serif;">I cannot
measure the beauty of a sunset, the warmth of a baby sleeping in my arms, or the
smell of freshly baked bread, but I can continuously ask myself, “Have I spent
my time simply calculating life’s quantitative elements (such as age), or am I
truly living out my life priorities?”<span>
</span>For me, this is not just an existential exercise. It is grappling with
the very practical question, “How can I live more purposefully?”</span></p>Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-48030577132421932512020-05-30T16:50:00.001-07:002020-05-31T10:54:00.043-07:00A Wake-Up Call<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite its maximum-volume, most annoying “Classic” intermittent
blaring, the alarm failed to fully penetrate the dream that was fully occupying
my sleep-deprived mind. Normally, my alarm wakes up my wife first, who in turn
wakes me up, shaking me until I respond. When she has gotten up earlier, or when
I am travelling without her, I often remain in my dream-occupied half-sleep for a while longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is as if my
neurotransmitters, compromised as they are by my Parkinson’s disease, refuse to
face the reality of each day any sooner than they have to.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-UjH_mxdWMU49hS420qmjxtX-35HQw8qAASOeL3Ah2281BjQtXweBgePE0hI4hSW8_MbNJvKnX1uuck-5LP8kr9IS-tIMDhTP2HtYDTZZR4qI2ZLExSDVrIeLhSiel3OuYwmAyYyXHjK/s1600/time-2980690_1280+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-UjH_mxdWMU49hS420qmjxtX-35HQw8qAASOeL3Ah2281BjQtXweBgePE0hI4hSW8_MbNJvKnX1uuck-5LP8kr9IS-tIMDhTP2HtYDTZZR4qI2ZLExSDVrIeLhSiel3OuYwmAyYyXHjK/s320/time-2980690_1280+-+Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;">On this particular occasion, I was travelling with my good
friend, Carson (with whom I had travelled around the world in 2012). He was
well aware of the impaired state of my hearing, as well as my morning dopamine
deficiency routine. He had been awakened from a deep sleep in his room some 20
feet away by the aggressively grating sound of my 8 AM alarm. When I didn’t
turn the alarm off, he ventured into my room, shook my shoulder to wake me, pointed
in the direction of the alarm clock and returned to his room. It was then, amid
the electronic shrieking of the alarm, that I noticed that, squinting at the
bold red numbers showing on the alarm clock beside my hotel room bed, it was 8:04
AM.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMxJSpCaePtYIGXgTeRUHC4GjJ9iOSDFFhZoW18JDRA3YdWwuQuzVUEGUCaQSmxHyGrGkIAKOIm37QM3lLhnvjO4KjZuYrvrDUw9Xtj5eJGFVREmLtYVhjaQuyuj0uAYwt1KHHYwumvXiW/s1600/hand-turns-off-alarm-clock-260nw-549102646.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="390" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMxJSpCaePtYIGXgTeRUHC4GjJ9iOSDFFhZoW18JDRA3YdWwuQuzVUEGUCaQSmxHyGrGkIAKOIm37QM3lLhnvjO4KjZuYrvrDUw9Xtj5eJGFVREmLtYVhjaQuyuj0uAYwt1KHHYwumvXiW/s320/hand-turns-off-alarm-clock-260nw-549102646.webp" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reached over to turn the alarm off, pressing the snooze
button numerous times, with increasing frustration at its lack of response. But
I could not seem to get the noise to stop. Anxiety mounting, I sat up,
searching for the power supply to the alarm clock. Of course, this required
that I turn the light on and pull out the bedside table to search for the
plug-in, which was cleverly hidden behind the bed headboard. After much effort,
I was finally able to find and extract the plug from the power bar. But the
alarm squawking continued. By then it was 8:11 AM.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carson returned to my room, this time pointing to my iPhone
dutifully recharging overnight on the same bedside table as the hotel alarm
clock. Enough neurons were firing by this time for me to realize that I had not
set the hotel alarm clock at all. As I did normally each morning, I had relied on
my iPhone for my wake-up call at 8 AM.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLI7Q86hrI35bLvWDAwJb2qSVoA6LWZKJX3-P6TdGwcmOYisGznbMDwtLm0g70DsFWKh2zlj2soLPVwWGnCy5TX22LCJhMaC8W3SVrTcMUw030R1WYsa64Z5b4Wl_jx-qb8sXLdzPyPVG/s1600/001_how-to-set-an-alarm-on-your-ipad-clock-4103789-5c41292b46e0fb0001696b4c+-+Copy+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLI7Q86hrI35bLvWDAwJb2qSVoA6LWZKJX3-P6TdGwcmOYisGznbMDwtLm0g70DsFWKh2zlj2soLPVwWGnCy5TX22LCJhMaC8W3SVrTcMUw030R1WYsa64Z5b4Wl_jx-qb8sXLdzPyPVG/s320/001_how-to-set-an-alarm-on-your-ipad-clock-4103789-5c41292b46e0fb0001696b4c+-+Copy+-+Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lately, I have been spending a lot of time evaluating the
stress-producing “noise” in my life. Increasingly, I have felt a sense of
alarm. Life is not getting any shorter! My capacity for coping with complexity
and passionate pursuit of numerous priorities at the same time has been waning.
All the while, there is an alarm sounding, a wake-up call that I am anxious to
silence. Hitting the snooze button doesn’t seem to work. Even attempts to
strangle the sources of anxiety fail. What can be done? Maybe the alarm clock
saga can act as a suitable metaphor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-NQSlObWG2rFKzzTEgFfamVtCH8sFKwQpvB8m-Yfe9Vf9CajRSHL3XeBQZ8Xbr8oCNMZpza5q90CDuR_Neu7722v97gSAH_dTK-qKe4lwZLPahq04RIOVyToU5GP6FXDvwKYlgRbQvDa/s1600/animated+turning+off+the+alarm+clock+-+Copy+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-NQSlObWG2rFKzzTEgFfamVtCH8sFKwQpvB8m-Yfe9Vf9CajRSHL3XeBQZ8Xbr8oCNMZpza5q90CDuR_Neu7722v97gSAH_dTK-qKe4lwZLPahq04RIOVyToU5GP6FXDvwKYlgRbQvDa/s1600/animated+turning+off+the+alarm+clock+-+Copy+-+Copy.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Consider these questions:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have I chosen the right alarm clock? What am I going to rely
on to wake me up? Is it reliable? Will or should it begin with family, friends,
or professionals?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What are the sources of “noise” in my life, as opposed to
important “alarms”? Do I have a plan to deal with these?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have I set the right time for a “wake-up call”? Will the
time for which my “alarm” is set give me enough sleep so that I will be capable
of meeting the demands of the day ahead of me? Do I have the right balance
between self-discipline and self-care? Am I prone to hit the “snooze button”
too quickly or not quickly enough?</div>
</div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-34509284815959544792020-04-19T18:58:00.001-07:002020-04-19T19:07:26.453-07:00The F Bomb?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised. The following may
contain language and opinions that are offensive or disturbing to some readers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8uBwWbfemiYBMDCB_VFiigfUHJxQ5Kdnk6adCnQzlWDFz2ktaYB6GeJPfMchuvXakjUCssTcZ-AyEMga_fVxuSWzdufPhub04sw84nvWyCuiq9ghidUeqDYOA1lW6UqUrkD3aUeKiB5w/s1600/f+bomb+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8uBwWbfemiYBMDCB_VFiigfUHJxQ5Kdnk6adCnQzlWDFz2ktaYB6GeJPfMchuvXakjUCssTcZ-AyEMga_fVxuSWzdufPhub04sw84nvWyCuiq9ghidUeqDYOA1lW6UqUrkD3aUeKiB5w/s320/f+bomb+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the past weeks, largely because of the “Stay Home”
directive flowing from the coronavirus pandemic, I have spent an extraordinary
amount of time watching Netflix. As have the other 170 million of its
subscribers. So attuned to the
introductory formatting of movies and television series, I have become part of
what I would characterize as a type of ‘herd immunity’. In fact, the warnings,
typically in relation to “graphic bloody violence”, sexuality, and “strong
language”, have become teasers, of sorts, enticing audiences with what amount
to invitations to discover what exactly is meant by those terms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Growing up, swearing and foul language were not permissible in
any circles of society in which I took part. And the F word reserved for itself
a special level of disdain during those preteen and teenage years. Sure, some
of the rough, rebellious crowd used such language within their own social
cliques, but it was considered unacceptable in any public setting. Perhaps
taking the metaphor too far, I heard teachers and parents threaten children
with “washing their mouths out with soap” for use of such profanity, although I
cannot say that I ever saw the ritual performed.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1g83vf6PxRugVAl9gepY24rx1fjao2SvGz3NoOLL2bEcZF5AOwCI0I8Xw4r_d56-mWKlXy1gqIANRSjjU3XD_g0AAlN_aNvAUCzMOQLS7TuM4hyphenhyphenl9jJ6636nrBmOdsAuv9x5r1bo6E7ln/s1600/f+bomb+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1g83vf6PxRugVAl9gepY24rx1fjao2SvGz3NoOLL2bEcZF5AOwCI0I8Xw4r_d56-mWKlXy1gqIANRSjjU3XD_g0AAlN_aNvAUCzMOQLS7TuM4hyphenhyphenl9jJ6636nrBmOdsAuv9x5r1bo6E7ln/s1600/f+bomb+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, it seems the use of “foul” language by almost anyone,
women or men, professionals or politicians, elicits little more than a raised
eyebrow or, more likely, a yawn. Given its proliferation in music, movies,
stand-up comedy, television, book titles and entertainment of all sorts, not to
mention everyday verbal and written communication, many people do not even
recognize its frequency of use. Take, for example, the F bomb. It seems this
verb has lost all of its supposedly redeeming explosive power and shock value
due to its common usage (often multiple times in one sentence). Of course,
there are numerous derivatives in the F bomb family, such as F off, F you, WTF,
FUBAR and the more recently adopted disparaging mother-f___. Although it
remains tethered to the original definition of the F word, “violent and, typically,
elicit copulation”, it seems to be bandied about with a large variety of
meanings, leaving it difficult to define except in the context of its use in
any given sentence or phrase.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFtvSVvH3K6OUO_p5_j8vTiQ_-KKbIOWCrxE3mswwKd87hUJ5JTaTA5I_uWuxWEdQrvTRaDOExVv4z5PcdKeYCf17De4daTAzkujZZ5hG86Yag-cqQfKGZm4bfQYBZ7pY7sTk1jqIPHSM/s1600/f+bomb+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFtvSVvH3K6OUO_p5_j8vTiQ_-KKbIOWCrxE3mswwKd87hUJ5JTaTA5I_uWuxWEdQrvTRaDOExVv4z5PcdKeYCf17De4daTAzkujZZ5hG86Yag-cqQfKGZm4bfQYBZ7pY7sTk1jqIPHSM/s1600/f+bomb+2.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, despite my introductory warning, I can almost hear the
responses of some of those who are reading this post saying, “I can use
whatever language I want. You’re just being judgmental and “puritanical”,
trying to control others freedom of expression.” Look, I know there is little
chance that anyone reading this post will cease using the word, or watching
movies that do. Perhaps because, as one author noted, “few words in our
ever-expanding language are as flexible or versatile<a href="file:///C:/Users/Bob.Kuhn/Documents/Blog%20Ideas/The%20F%20Bomb%20and%20Other%20Duds.docx#_edn1" name="_ednref1" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">[i]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>”
as the F bomb?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, I think it is worth asking the question, “is the
use of the F- word beneficial, helpful, definable, or worthy of including in
our daily lexicon?” Or, has the expletive worn out its welcome, becoming just another
tired, overused and meaningless expression that is better left out of any
helpful communication?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="mso-element: endnote-list;">
<!--[endif]-->
<br />
<div id="edn1" style="mso-element: endnote;">
<div class="MsoEndnoteText">
<a href="file:///C:/Users/Bob.Kuhn/Documents/Blog%20Ideas/The%20F%20Bomb%20and%20Other%20Duds.docx#_ednref1" name="_edn1" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">[i]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
"Why F___ Is One of the Best Words in the English Language", by Max
Hill, The Peak, March 3, 2014<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
</div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-64713128678749360222020-02-10T11:54:00.000-08:002020-02-10T11:54:51.484-08:00What’s Next?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
It took 7 years for the idea of going to Antarctica to
become a reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was conceived in
the waning moments of the trip I took with my dear friend, Carson Pue, around
the world in 2012.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were in New
Zealand, the end of the trip and splitting up to travel different directions
after together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had visited 17
countries, experiencing more adventures than we could count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We found ourselves asking, “What’s
next?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our venture to the last continent, the most
southerly place we will ever experience, is behind us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The memories of this extraordinary expedition
are already indelibly etched by the synapses into our minds (if that is what
synapses do, physiologically speaking).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were innumerable sightings of playful
penguins racing our ship as well as too many whale sightings to recall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it
is never too soon to plan the next adventure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, plant the memories in your
garden of adventures, where you can stroll through the variegated colors, moods,
characters, significance and impact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need
to remember the things I learned along the way, not just ‘move on’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Second, do not let melancholy, disappointment
or resentment taint the final hours or days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Drink it to completion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
often prone to miss the special or surprising endings waiting for me unless I am
looking for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Third, begin in
earnest to imagine the next adventure before the current one is fully spent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big or small, commit yourself to live on
purpose, embrace the known and unknown. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dream
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plan again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
We are made for adventure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-73445588962230361592020-01-28T06:37:00.001-08:002020-01-28T06:41:19.876-08:00Overwhelmed by the Vastness - Antarctica<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Buenos Aires is a long ways from Vancouver, even at the
speed of a state-of-the-art Boeing 777. Including connections, the air portion
of the journey took approximately 24 hours to cover the 12,300 km we traveled.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fy2koLPkHwstYf-X7DE12Je9z1H222y4rQvU6VmoNpZFSITs7Ba5ZiLf8Of_PTo9Hl2UQkPaXwbrnQ1T4ryFXMTWqpF8-IC4iVJH5vYIGLPdMiV0dCrAvg2a5h7bH5UKz2nQXP85NB-Y/s1600/antarctica+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fy2koLPkHwstYf-X7DE12Je9z1H222y4rQvU6VmoNpZFSITs7Ba5ZiLf8Of_PTo9Hl2UQkPaXwbrnQ1T4ryFXMTWqpF8-IC4iVJH5vYIGLPdMiV0dCrAvg2a5h7bH5UKz2nQXP85NB-Y/s1600/antarctica+4.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Add to that more than three full days of steaming southward 2700
km on board the Celebrity Eclipse from the capital of Argentina to our first
port of call, the city of Ushuaia, labelled “the end of the world”; the
distance seems immense. Still, it is more than 1000 km to Antarctica.</div>
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Far from land, during the full days at sea, the
South Atlantic Ocean offered no points of reference, except perhaps the stars
that struggled to be noticed during the few, short hours of night.
Increasingly, as we journeyed southward, we were replacing the familiar with
the unknown, and in the process experiencing a deep and overwhelming sense of
the vastness of distance, time and space. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gsfV_x_-SR9HZ0UekxiJmgppY7HbDdFwVCmVuAtdSX4UMInq8XtfVoEr6Cfd9heLjcLXb3xRmiO-7cC0iPbsx-kyxvnRKCa1kdlI2SFKMVYTbe8h3DgCmYJt8ALARuXj6GSTSbq89M3L/s1600/antarctica+A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="241" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gsfV_x_-SR9HZ0UekxiJmgppY7HbDdFwVCmVuAtdSX4UMInq8XtfVoEr6Cfd9heLjcLXb3xRmiO-7cC0iPbsx-kyxvnRKCa1kdlI2SFKMVYTbe8h3DgCmYJt8ALARuXj6GSTSbq89M3L/s400/antarctica+A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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While the passage has been smooth to date, and the weather almost warm despite patches of rain and a little snow, there seems to be a shared sense
that the waves may not continue to be limited to 10-foot rollers. And the
increasingly sharp bite of the wind on deck seems to foreshadow a colder
climate would soon be upon us. Indeed, it is the uncertainty, the mystery and
the adventure that seems to have drawn many of the other passengers to this most
southern of all itineraries, a far different crowd from those occupying the
sizzling beaches of the Caribbean. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Why travel all this way when the scenery, weather and water
are all so severe, so unwelcoming, so far from the familiar?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe because such a place; the coldest,
driest, most isolated place on earth, where simply surviving for more than a
short time defies our pride, scorns our self-sufficiency, and reduces our self-proclaimed
conquests into short-lived tales of arrogance.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaJhjsgo1ifYcpdwDprnvdGKy_c7rupvnlMHwniYfYnNmZPBI7u5BK_-6BfBl_G4AAKqdKhAhwwpgvSRE6GAyXwjyDvkkgDxWjRYxhAi2iOXIwQ-n8VWE2O15WrczW6i5AXUxAW5oRlIP/s1600/antarctica+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaJhjsgo1ifYcpdwDprnvdGKy_c7rupvnlMHwniYfYnNmZPBI7u5BK_-6BfBl_G4AAKqdKhAhwwpgvSRE6GAyXwjyDvkkgDxWjRYxhAi2iOXIwQ-n8VWE2O15WrczW6i5AXUxAW5oRlIP/s320/antarctica+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Rounding Cape Horn lighthouse, I can only imagine the
incredible fear and feeling of disconnection from the rest of the world felt by
the mariners of 200 years ago, or now the Chilean lighthouse-keeper and his family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waves in the Drake Passage jostle among themselves as if to rub shoulders in a vain attempt to get warmer. Standing on deck 15, far above the grey-cold
sea, I feel the icy wind cutting into my down-lined jacket. As it reaches through the layers and touches my
skin I have images in my head of sailors of old clambering over icy decks,
while fighting bare-handed with frozen lines and heavy, clumsy sails in an
attempt to keep the ship from being caught and crushed by the relentless ice. Such a mental picture seems light-years away
from the comfort of our luxury cruise-liner. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4KtpYIpmvoSrOb_oF-oTHHLFJMO4FI0qmeou3yt-4M620RVVp0Lhd_PB_GFnR_OzgFKXoMUGHDcqrCeJsxD352mmPrJ0uEOIs-CpSfw9VCSuIGH7SlDyL_NCRz3ZDSpkiW6aK0agCKgt/s1600/antarctica+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4KtpYIpmvoSrOb_oF-oTHHLFJMO4FI0qmeou3yt-4M620RVVp0Lhd_PB_GFnR_OzgFKXoMUGHDcqrCeJsxD352mmPrJ0uEOIs-CpSfw9VCSuIGH7SlDyL_NCRz3ZDSpkiW6aK0agCKgt/s320/antarctica+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
But the starkness of this snow and
ice bound continent presents itself, as it always has to all who get caught in
its unforgiving stare; powerful, uninviting, even threatening to those of us
who become spellbound at the abruptness of its jagged peaks and towering
icebergs that stab the grey-blue frigid water.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Life today is a long way from where it once was, just as
Antarctica is a great distance from Canada’s West Coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, at times, I feel lost, abandoned without
bearings, snow-blind in a white-out, left to be swallowed by the vastness; my
own Antarctica.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you to those who
courageously give hope when all seems hopeless, who choose to challenge the
formidable, and lead those of us who are sometimes lost in the immensity of
living to a place of purpose and peace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-86771949298520035672020-01-28T05:15:00.000-08:002020-01-28T06:59:51.079-08:00A Blog About Why I Can’t Seem to Blog <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ironic
as the title may be, I have been pondering, even wrestling with and obsessing
over this very question for months now. If I had spent a fraction of the time
writing as I spent in the emotional/mental ‘doldrums’ thinking about
writing...well, you know what I mean.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgYCIgbcy4_vGbrxueDBJXxR8RGRNAexHSWZvW4Q96F993OlJvPaXgMlLSRX5u9LCBcqhyTiW4Q5wXOUqgageTJmDrI1eWURpHDxQCxTt2S83EzGTFSUyke4K7Sc54zfJnxaYdiaSWn0_/s1600/antarctica+C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgYCIgbcy4_vGbrxueDBJXxR8RGRNAexHSWZvW4Q96F993OlJvPaXgMlLSRX5u9LCBcqhyTiW4Q5wXOUqgageTJmDrI1eWURpHDxQCxTt2S83EzGTFSUyke4K7Sc54zfJnxaYdiaSWn0_/s1600/antarctica+C.jpg" /></a></div>
Having
completed my contract at the University, I have more discretionary time than
ever before. In response to the question, “What’s next?” I had shared with many
that I enjoyed writing blog posts and would be rejuvenating my “Positively Parkinsons”
soon. But, despite my best intentions, this has not materialized. So, why the
seeming immobilized state?</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Time
to be brutally honest. Here are the causes/sources that I have considered for
my apparent writer’s block. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Maybe
this battle of the blog is simply a manifestation of the ever-evolving grip of
my Parkinson’s. Like the “frozen gait” that stops some of my PD pals in their
tracks; the mind says move but the legs don’t get the message. Or it could be like
the stiffness I experience when I forget to take my meds on time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Moving
on to some of the non-motor symptoms of PD, perhaps it is fatigue that plagues
my sleep-deprived body of energy, leaving me spent at the end of most days with
no energy to be creative. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Or,
maybe it is the lurking devil of depression, which can lead to dreary and dark
thoughts of hopelessness and a “why bother” response to the challenge of
creating and refining a worthwhile blog post. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
have been experiencing a crisis of confidence (not sure if it is a cause or an
affect). Is my writing worth publishing or posting? Am I any good at it? Is
this writing thing a thinly veiled attempt to attract attention, compliments
or, heaven forbid, pity? Is it worth the effort/time? Does it really encourage
people (whether with PD or not)? Am I just procrastinating, being lazy or
undisciplined?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s just time to
move on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All
these potential sources, unanswered questions, and more could be at play in my
“writer’s block”. So what do I do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
the question I leave with you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is
your advice?</span></div>
</div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-83724663822204512522019-09-02T15:42:00.000-07:002019-09-02T15:44:31.760-07:00Are you only as old as you think you are?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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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. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeo-u1CSWwaBj8aCz2MvstSsGWx-1dhg9GGxVKFuPL8Jgo-1uv_ZA1-9v56OT6IRM6GzsLPqY2Uc8N9A41GDfaF4lWo4OBo3Kls3KTJehvqQ2AHAcziFzlbeU7152XuRdMDuoCIHkmzXj/s1600/que+sera1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeo-u1CSWwaBj8aCz2MvstSsGWx-1dhg9GGxVKFuPL8Jgo-1uv_ZA1-9v56OT6IRM6GzsLPqY2Uc8N9A41GDfaF4lWo4OBo3Kls3KTJehvqQ2AHAcziFzlbeU7152XuRdMDuoCIHkmzXj/s1600/que+sera1.jpg" /></a></div>
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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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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!<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2qFxV9vTt9DDJUbvCWY26PEZ0LLeuKoApsarh_RaorrswX4DvLS0n3zTZdIMHUJ4kdkfEcB3phziWbR1KBKDQDiAsFGJQVm5Ye5nD0tiy1k448bH_Fp3BIDIxrDtS8bfgUeAepiIMt07/s1600/fountain+of+youth+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="207" data-original-width="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2qFxV9vTt9DDJUbvCWY26PEZ0LLeuKoApsarh_RaorrswX4DvLS0n3zTZdIMHUJ4kdkfEcB3phziWbR1KBKDQDiAsFGJQVm5Ye5nD0tiy1k448bH_Fp3BIDIxrDtS8bfgUeAepiIMt07/s1600/fountain+of+youth+2.jpg" /></a></div>
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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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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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.</div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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*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.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJDIHDteEB5T3IYOd2k3xWtdVYXJRt0vklcQXidll-Qbi2sSWraFYZleqwBxJKoRZpf5SpbUndZpGUjHVjGhkCGOSfg2UYhaeiMYDZwJlI25IP4TteeDbNYekpDGo_U5DA9TYG00kM5Sw/s1600/doris+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJDIHDteEB5T3IYOd2k3xWtdVYXJRt0vklcQXidll-Qbi2sSWraFYZleqwBxJKoRZpf5SpbUndZpGUjHVjGhkCGOSfg2UYhaeiMYDZwJlI25IP4TteeDbNYekpDGo_U5DA9TYG00kM5Sw/s1600/doris+day.jpg" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-66711883673766798772019-08-31T19:56:00.000-07:002019-08-31T20:00:24.634-07:00Apathy and Parkinson’s Disease<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the applause of Canadians everywhere, the Toronto Raptors
won the 2018/19 NBA championship. Did you really care? Do you have some travel
coming up? Are you excited about it? Maybe you have lots of free time in your schedule
for the next couple of weeks. Are you looking forward to enjoying those hours
and days? You may be anticipating meeting an old friend, high school buddy or
long-lost cousin for coffee. Are you enthusiastic about that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr65gCxxb36PRNvfNV1MRrflsxnlyECZyKiSRRkPtzQLG2XjjW5BMfPjo3By5fgbJyrntU10aFKZoQegPu0PfM8X24mMLT_JXXxfoC4jfoXNd8Q9P10gyt-OHZJDDsB5iBTBLXQmmzm8Hy/s1600/rhett+butler+quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr65gCxxb36PRNvfNV1MRrflsxnlyECZyKiSRRkPtzQLG2XjjW5BMfPjo3By5fgbJyrntU10aFKZoQegPu0PfM8X24mMLT_JXXxfoC4jfoXNd8Q9P10gyt-OHZJDDsB5iBTBLXQmmzm8Hy/s1600/rhett+butler+quote.jpg" /></a></div>
I am certain that some of you at least ascribe to the dismissive
line of Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind:
”Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn”.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought I had experienced most of the symptoms of
Parkinson’s, or at least knew someone that had. However, I was ill-prepared for
one such attribute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It crept up on me
the past few months. It has proven a stealthy and deceptive enemy, masquerading
as a temporary circumstance brought on by any number of life events. It was
something I expected to simply “go away” as my life patterns changed. I found
myself making excuses when it did not, saying things like ”when (fill in the
blank) happens this feeling will disappear”. But it hasn’t. So now is the time
to name the unpredictable and elusive symptom apparently experienced by up to
70% of people with Parkinson’s. APATHY. Having capitalized each letter of the
word I must admit that it was for emphasis rather than because I felt strongly
about it. In fact, everything feels a little (or a lot) emotionally flat.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6qjteGDKRyMxPz0HjY9G6tuA75qbNuRYdMp4dU86IBblmLF1qxzPTZWNhd-xeD-jsya-dkL0WICFVC-LMGBjzhnIdjpbZJrEE5xOzgS_MbA2PXD7sNjZqlIkg9QHPJ0tLes8EIewqAhK/s1600/apathy+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6qjteGDKRyMxPz0HjY9G6tuA75qbNuRYdMp4dU86IBblmLF1qxzPTZWNhd-xeD-jsya-dkL0WICFVC-LMGBjzhnIdjpbZJrEE5xOzgS_MbA2PXD7sNjZqlIkg9QHPJ0tLes8EIewqAhK/s1600/apathy+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The shameful reality is that I have fallen victim to this
debilitating state of body/mind. Although I’m not continuously aware of its
presence, it can climb into my skin at will, like some form of alien. It seeks
to commandeer my days, pretending to be the result of fatigue, insomnia,
sadness or even depression. Apathy can sit on my shoulder, whispering in
response to any attempt at motivation, activity or effort, “Why bother? Just
rest for now. Perhaps you’ll feel better in an hour or two. Or maybe tomorrow. It’s not really that important anyway.”
Embarrassed now, I admit to having listened to these prompts and complied, or
rather succumbed, to their indifference.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be completely honest and transparent, when I am caught in
the grip of apathy almost everything seems veiled in passionless passivity. The
things I used to enjoy don’t seem so important or even attractive.
Procrastination and indecisiveness prove stronger than self-discipline and
logic. Take this blog post for instance. I have been planning on getting this
written for weeks now. But it never seemed to make it to the top of the priority
list. In fact, there isn’t much of a list of priorities.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10 years ago, August 30, 2009, I began Positively Parkinson’s
in order to encourage others facing the day-to-day battles of PD. No candy-coated
aphorisms. No false promises. No venting, rage, or ‘woe is me’ narrative. Just
living out the adventure and giving hope as best I can. The 10<sup>th</sup>
anniversary of this blog should have been enough to rediscover the spark and
reignite some passion for the cause, given that I had been looking forward to
more time to write posts to share. But <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>apathetic indifference struck a near knockout
blow before I saw it coming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What exactly is apathy? It is not depression (although it
may lead to that I suppose). But the two have some similarities, as both are
believed to have neurological, psychological and emotional elements. Of course,
the Latin root words provide a fairly clear description of the word:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A”, means without” and “Pathos”, means passion.
That’s easy enough: without passion. And this may be a more pervasive state
than many of us realize.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #101010; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As
Helen Keller said, “Science may have found a cure for most evils; but it has
found no remedy for the worst of them all - the apathy of human beings”.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRItkmb0trw1p0FJWatHvluMUAm_1oQHGcPaDWCd455E5HtLAX8YZ0B1Jd_tKOT-JFpN8t0QiJ8hyphenhyphen6pMeeclu52CfKnwvMuocoR18E_H8lOZ2zy2hif5k-IwHz7y_33EQYPxcivrU_1qIX/s1600/apathy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRItkmb0trw1p0FJWatHvluMUAm_1oQHGcPaDWCd455E5HtLAX8YZ0B1Jd_tKOT-JFpN8t0QiJ8hyphenhyphen6pMeeclu52CfKnwvMuocoR18E_H8lOZ2zy2hif5k-IwHz7y_33EQYPxcivrU_1qIX/s1600/apathy.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #101010; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My guess is that we all know what it feels like to be
apathetic, especially if we live with Parkinson’s disease. According to some
studies, 70% of us are affected by this silent joy-killer. But what are the
causes? And, perhaps more important, what is the antidote?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My own view is that apathy is not just a shortage of
dopamine, but a quiet, self protective response to the lack of hope. Hope for a
cure. Hope for a slower degeneration of normal functioning. Hope that there is
significance and purpose in it all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The remedy? Perhaps the best response is a combined strategy
(to deal with the multi-pronged causation).
Make sure your meds are working properly to deal with the neurological
effects of PD as best they can. Second, enlist a support team to provide
structure and process, as well as encouragement and accountability. This could
include a spouse/significant other, family, friends and professionals of all
varieties. This can go some distance to rebut one’s own emotional and
psychological slide into apathetic darkness. And lastly, depending on the
supply of energy and commitment left in your tank, establish very modest goals,
typically one at a time. For instance, my goal was to write this 10<sup>th</sup>
anniversary blog post before the end of August. There is nothing quite like succeeding
at modest goals to give us the motivation to push ahead. That sense of accomplishment will help build
hope in future achievements.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-75246165193296241042019-07-10T21:09:00.000-07:002019-07-10T21:25:13.224-07:00Get Out Of the Shower!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTj6rK7NePW8otvD53SWPGhanUH-Ny2HPBpf-vwBVtNCOfYWlWAtPSRnQsDuOb5O82NSRTrVYFCPt4i_0-lqVAkTqmhZ8sCHAEQ2b5IEJe1wMUYyL_XpbSaymS6RXqm5a0Z_DftNBQzPm/s1600/shower+%25236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="196" data-original-width="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTj6rK7NePW8otvD53SWPGhanUH-Ny2HPBpf-vwBVtNCOfYWlWAtPSRnQsDuOb5O82NSRTrVYFCPt4i_0-lqVAkTqmhZ8sCHAEQ2b5IEJe1wMUYyL_XpbSaymS6RXqm5a0Z_DftNBQzPm/s1600/shower+%25236.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFoMH5qqEUqB2bzAa1kJL9IkfN9PcOB5b3vixHcKQCZ1znjekRQ4vNGt29FJoYNmN7uQ3mn6kTSah9ULECFUsTkpXzoeCVfZX15UINgs5TeRI3qumtUf654_Oin6kIQsltPH3XujNk0gJ/s1600/shower+%25235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="780" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFoMH5qqEUqB2bzAa1kJL9IkfN9PcOB5b3vixHcKQCZ1znjekRQ4vNGt29FJoYNmN7uQ3mn6kTSah9ULECFUsTkpXzoeCVfZX15UINgs5TeRI3qumtUf654_Oin6kIQsltPH3XujNk0gJ/s200/shower+%25235.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so the day begins with the sacrament of the shower.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning I fought harder in the shower before I submitted to the
demands of the day. Somehow, it being my 67<sup>th</sup> 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may have to at some time
in my life but for now, it just does not feel right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk82VDNx9_XFDZmsw3q8kH4sOPy65HIb1RqT1fN7ZLsP6Sno2ZQJnV-uEOrvkLeFZNTfPpoNIbTl1sj6SWT1tbYVxBjsmQTpUIrmKYuwf30tP9eFoq_65CkyhzN9k5Jm-BybubcEsrdYpZ/s1600/shower+%25231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="444" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk82VDNx9_XFDZmsw3q8kH4sOPy65HIb1RqT1fN7ZLsP6Sno2ZQJnV-uEOrvkLeFZNTfPpoNIbTl1sj6SWT1tbYVxBjsmQTpUIrmKYuwf30tP9eFoq_65CkyhzN9k5Jm-BybubcEsrdYpZ/s200/shower+%25231.jpg" width="138" /></a></div>
Luxurious as it is, my
shower is transition. Just as the dawn is the transition from night to day. It
has a natural rhythm.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I begin my 67<sup>th</sup> 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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit." Aristotle.</div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-35413689903948750652019-07-07T15:51:00.001-07:002019-07-07T16:48:24.669-07:00Rise - Is It Time to Change?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzMmJf4rZcAFxBe7MH2ALBomZarVEAj3iwzTq_ir8eOzziWyGI6ibdlf3AaNYFF6omY1peJBI9yCo7VKklscw7aU9APIufZepTTWQcDM9PWcsHl8_Ll-RlyqYw2CO0JYDXanDHE2LlvVsp/s1600/RISE+photos+2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzMmJf4rZcAFxBe7MH2ALBomZarVEAj3iwzTq_ir8eOzziWyGI6ibdlf3AaNYFF6omY1peJBI9yCo7VKklscw7aU9APIufZepTTWQcDM9PWcsHl8_Ll-RlyqYw2CO0JYDXanDHE2LlvVsp/s320/RISE+photos+2019.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> It was seven in the morning, and I was up, dressed and
waiting at the rendezvous point of the one-hour walk that would start four days
of challenges. While characterized as a “retreat”, it was more like an annual boot
camp specifically designed for people with Parkinson's disease. It was appropriately called “Rise”. Rise from sitting at a desk in front
of a computer or a meeting for long hours every day. Rise from the denial,
blissful ignorance and wishful thinking. It was time for a realistic self-assessment. Physical, mental, emotional, and even social
changes needed to be made. Parkinson’s was increasing its grip. My willful
blindness to the deteriorating state of my body, along with the deceptive nature
of my thinking (or lack thereof), could no longer be ignored. Things had to
change.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The past weeks were difficult. It has been time to confront
and create a” new normal” where work was not all consuming. Now there were
limited excuses to avoid serious self-care. The days at Rise demanded that I
take initiatives and make changes. It was similar to the stretching that we
engaged in at the boot camp. My muscles are stiff and unyielding despite my
determination. Touching my toes was physically impossible, the equivalent of
bending a 2 x 4 piece of lumber. My hamstrings and related muscles would not
yield, coming to the end of their attempt with my hands touching just below my
knees. Other stretches were equally laughable, disappointing or worse. Not only
had my muscles contracted during recent years, but I ran out of breath easily,
and by coordination was nonexistent. I have a long ways to go.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuM5DQ5GpYzM0WLPF9r5sGRpaTPceCWwJjDOrfe3pYBnJIbW_Ko2XjTcbuL67zNX0AUyiaxRTwzqkMvSHsffvJ6KDiDxSX_6wlKDLBYItk_XVhMU5I5ULOtRUVcjc8RM6arb5D6XOVDK1N/s1600/RISE+%25232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1026966222179181004" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuM5DQ5GpYzM0WLPF9r5sGRpaTPceCWwJjDOrfe3pYBnJIbW_Ko2XjTcbuL67zNX0AUyiaxRTwzqkMvSHsffvJ6KDiDxSX_6wlKDLBYItk_XVhMU5I5ULOtRUVcjc8RM6arb5D6XOVDK1N/s320/RISE+%25232.jpg" width="240" /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some changes come easily. Others are thrust upon us, causing
pain. Some changes come about slowly, almost imperceptibly. Whereas others
strike unexpectedly like a flash of lightning. We can control some changes in
our lives, while others may be out of our reach and inevitable. But how we
respond to change, or even initiate it, can be of great significance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What did I learn from Rise? Whether making changes, or
adapting to the changes thrust upon us, it will be difficult. Let me distill
the lessons of my four days of confronting change. These questions define a way
forward for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><u>Why </u>do we want to, or need to, make
changes? This may be the easiest of the following questions. In my case,
Parkinson’s unrelenting attack will increasingly seek to erode the quality of my
life. I owe it myself and others (my wife, family and friends) to do the best
that I can with “the cards I have been dealt”. Life is a gift to be handled
with care, not squandered, abandoned or abused. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1026966222179181004" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">2<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><u>What</u> exactly needs to change?
Self-assessment produces, in my case at least, a list that is far too long, and
embarrassing to share here. So much needs to change. But we can only do one
thing at a time, and not everything can be a priority. For me, the priorities
fall into a few categories: physical exercise, writing, soul care, and
relational.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1026966222179181004" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><u>How</u> will I bring about needed change?
Here is where the planning and commitment get derailed. For each priority I
need a plan, a roadmap, an assessment of how I will take the necessary
incremental steps to bring about change. It is easy for me to be naïve and
overly optimistic. But I know from failed attempts in the past that grandiose
plans often yield grandiose failures and discouragement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">4<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><u>Who</u> will help me make the needed changes?
In many cases, change involves more than myself. To change eating habits, carve
out time for exercise, arranged for quiet time to think, write or read, and
spend time with important relationships all involve others. But, engaging their
assistance will also build accountability and encouragement. I need to be specific
in my requests for the assistance of others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">5 <span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><u>When</u> will I start? Habits developed overnight
are typically lost within a similar period of time.<span style="background: white; color: #222222;"> A recent study of 96 people published in </span>The European Journal of Social Psychology found it took
on average 66 days to form a habit. However, this number varies widely
dependent on the person and circumstances, as well as the particular habit.<o:p></o:p></span>.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSD8DuLfwv0vpnUeaKkX-hrqnvAcaczt0SWJ4EvAqJ9W8q-i1MPJu0xg2sUs8nzKI17oYq1LRzHM55ohyphenhyphen4UtiGVRFrsQYkpiCwO_auU4Nm1HxHf9aQm5ItHvgNsIGHeolWuOt_PRAltEh/s1600/Rise+2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="161" data-original-width="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSD8DuLfwv0vpnUeaKkX-hrqnvAcaczt0SWJ4EvAqJ9W8q-i1MPJu0xg2sUs8nzKI17oYq1LRzHM55ohyphenhyphen4UtiGVRFrsQYkpiCwO_auU4Nm1HxHf9aQm5ItHvgNsIGHeolWuOt_PRAltEh/s1600/Rise+2019.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1026966222179181004" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It takes more than a 4-day weekend to make
changes. But it’s a start, a much-needed new beginning. Let’s commit to change. See website for Rise details. <a href="https://www.risepdretreat.com/about" target="_blank">https://www.risepdretreat.com</a></span></span></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-47943478721959179072019-06-16T18:22:00.000-07:002019-06-16T18:22:18.553-07:00My Father The Dam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0z9BoBezUQDgkIGnNAB-PPX2Xu6BLi_UyrSetafQzLmmLIYzqabKYHlOvmCUsxFnFutNa6demiz2e7FkS3FtK1G_32CQEkW3gn0lV7XcKV99irGtZGbzPEjGg2cujFl9D6JzcmXOb9iWL/s1600/dam.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0z9BoBezUQDgkIGnNAB-PPX2Xu6BLi_UyrSetafQzLmmLIYzqabKYHlOvmCUsxFnFutNa6demiz2e7FkS3FtK1G_32CQEkW3gn0lV7XcKV99irGtZGbzPEjGg2cujFl9D6JzcmXOb9iWL/s1600/dam.bmp" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
Silent, strong and deep, my father was like a dam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He held back the emotions that must have been
in those final years. The anxiety of knowing he had Parkinson’s disease that
commandeered his body. The fear of knowing he was caught in a narrow gorge as
awareness of his world shrank with Lewy Bodies dementia. The struggle to
communicate as turmoil replaced the peaceful, still waters of the early
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the end, when he could no
longer hold the waters back, he let them pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They gushed through turbines, sending high-voltage emotions to us, his
family; providing as he always tried to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
Is it my turn?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is Parkinson’s
genetically determined? Or is my parentage simply one factor of many? Was it
the innocent but unavoidable exposure to the toxic chemicals, cast like a
canopy over our apple orchard trees each spring and summer? It could be either,
both or neither. We may never know. For Dad it doesn’t really matter, and for
me it matters little. Although it may assist those others who will know the
many symptoms of this idiosyncratic disease. But, even if I knew, there is no
reason to blame my lineage. We all pass on our imperfections, resist them as we
might. We cannot hold the water back completely or indefinitely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU7pnRG24ejalfjY3S9l8dJzEjM0zmR09x2rKUXAwNcR49VyDjz6kXQDsTw2eFW6Y0TbGMD41JbCdMUVvIXC135lg1C0-C_ddRIPVwD5CJdzGRDx0Ui9oGPPkk26lGCIXAU4sx2Sfh3VaK/s1600/Vernon-hon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU7pnRG24ejalfjY3S9l8dJzEjM0zmR09x2rKUXAwNcR49VyDjz6kXQDsTw2eFW6Y0TbGMD41JbCdMUVvIXC135lg1C0-C_ddRIPVwD5CJdzGRDx0Ui9oGPPkk26lGCIXAU4sx2Sfh3VaK/s1600/Vernon-hon.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
He was not perfect but he did his best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a good father. I think of him still,
these 10 years gone, my father, the dam.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-22968927978085971942019-06-12T22:29:00.001-07:002019-06-12T22:29:45.261-07:00Stuck in the Tunnel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew this was a special medical procedure when at least
half of the 30 or so ailments or conditions found in the hospital’s disclaimer
I had to sign were things I had never heard of. I did not want to ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just ticked the ‘no’ boxes and signed at
the bottom and handed the form and clipboard back to the clerk.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1jWJK-EEDkyc1dNagm0XwI3D9pnuWomyNl3D9aAXTGauucwEyzQvZX24yOW8LKwBczh7aG4Azywr0OWjN0NV05ZvYy8v4_XWmBuhLQi137loRkMMfTOHewXOcehWz2ubm48XhH4DeVlA/s1600/mri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1jWJK-EEDkyc1dNagm0XwI3D9pnuWomyNl3D9aAXTGauucwEyzQvZX24yOW8LKwBczh7aG4Azywr0OWjN0NV05ZvYy8v4_XWmBuhLQi137loRkMMfTOHewXOcehWz2ubm48XhH4DeVlA/s320/mri.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She then asked a curious question, “Can you hold your arms
up above your head?” Not thinking this could be particularly important, I
raised my hands above my head in a diving position with only slight strain in
my Parkinson’s-stiffened shoulders. Apparently, I passed the test. However, I
failed to ask what would prove to be a critically important question; “How long?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was not the first mistake I had made that morning. I had
followed the preparatory instructions to the letter, assuming when it said, “nothing
to eat or drink for four hours before”, it meant that I had to postpone taking
my Parkinson’s medications. I thought it best to tell the medical clerk not to
be alarmed at my shaking, and explained my unmedicated state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She obtained approval for me to take my
pills, but it was too late. The shaking had begun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLFPXNEEL2Js0WgEoKixTVkDvI9xTB0Q0gtyCPc7259BL_f0vU76z9PeoHokP82BIl0lo9A0zlIBIinJnSiece-yYRZQuZl6HDctjOHoEoNqWYYGjZpl-xOS9A24PpDlBurNOmqTAVeeOA/s1600/gadolinium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLFPXNEEL2Js0WgEoKixTVkDvI9xTB0Q0gtyCPc7259BL_f0vU76z9PeoHokP82BIl0lo9A0zlIBIinJnSiece-yYRZQuZl6HDctjOHoEoNqWYYGjZpl-xOS9A24PpDlBurNOmqTAVeeOA/s1600/gadolinium.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, the tremors only increased when I saw the
technician arrive with a syringe and other paraphernalia. After searching for a
vein, he informed me that I was being injected with gadolinium. Gadolinium sounded
to me like the name of a small village occupied by hobbit-like creatures. Or,
perhaps, a newly-discovered galaxy. In fact, I was informed it is one of 17
rare earth chemical elements, and it is used in conjunction with an MRI
(Magnetic Resonance Imaging machine) because of the element’s magnetic
properties providing better definition for the images to be taken. I assumed it
was safe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having surrendered up my hearing aids, asking any further
questions, or at least hearing any answers, was likely to prove challenging, if
not impossible. Patting the platform, indicating I was to lie down on a somewhat
uncomfortable horizontal frame, the technician moved my arms above my head into
the recently demonstrated dive position. Speaking loudly in one ear, he asked
what I assumed was a rhetorical question; “Can you hold this position for the
next 35 minutes?” How was I supposed to know? I do not recall ever having to maintain
that position for 35 minutes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I discovered a long time ago that I am not claustrophobic
(that had been one of the questions on the disclaimer I had marked no”). And it’s
a good thing because I was slid into the MRI tube feet first, arms in the dive
position, looking like I was practising for the one-man luge event in the
Olympics, except for the arms. Hearing various clicking sounds, I knew we were “locked
and loaded”. I realized then that 35 minutes would be a very long time.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3juI0GXJkv_76rd8ZamRpLAZCMzOaJv2Ut50NirNt8M4CulivytGPcJm1aOT_5VREmPDXOslrK2Vjpo8Q-722FpnmM7d9bm-3dgnoVz98UQ_QX_8qw8aRh_6xsfImu5_K_aexXb2lPxP/s1600/luge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="992" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3juI0GXJkv_76rd8ZamRpLAZCMzOaJv2Ut50NirNt8M4CulivytGPcJm1aOT_5VREmPDXOslrK2Vjpo8Q-722FpnmM7d9bm-3dgnoVz98UQ_QX_8qw8aRh_6xsfImu5_K_aexXb2lPxP/s320/luge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Squeezed into place, unable to move, the procedure began. What
followed was a series of very loud sounds; something like a cross between banshee
screams and intermittent air raid siren. In advance of each noisy invasion, there
was a computer-generated voice, which seemed in my deafened state to whisper, “Breathe
in. Hold your breath.” I wanted to ask, “How long?” But I was certain I wouldn’t
have heard the answer. So I obeyed, breathing in all the oxygen I could, given
the extremely cramped conditions, and breathing out when told to do so. All the
while, the machine emitted computerized screams.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After what seemed like a lot longer than 35 minutes, I was
withdrawn from the MRI “compression cylinder”. Despite aching shoulders, a couple
of needle stab wounds, I knew the answer to the questions: “Yes, I can hold my
arms over my head in the dive position for 35 minutes.” But please don’t ask me
to do so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-9835435267724510802019-06-05T19:18:00.000-07:002019-06-05T19:18:48.359-07:00Men, Aging and Parkinson’s Disease<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sad and silent. These men shuffled into
the small meeting room, supposedly to hear me share my “story”, my experience
with Parkinson’s disease. While I am a poor judge of age, I estimate that they
were all in their 80s or 90s. Most of them appeared to remain ambulatory only
with the use of a walker, neatly parked near the door like shopping carts at
the entrance to a grocery store.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXd1zTsfXbzmd8WnRWOfyMcmmsiJmKHtKvIQ2w04kMf2CukqUk8-9iU8_fRkgN0yZvo4K03uQIU2bth-zpULPw8HlhS4r4HLXmJuuAZQHKZNEr7-WSSmqLtWMAmxYBdts5LShwoi6EEX3G/s1600/man-using-walker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXd1zTsfXbzmd8WnRWOfyMcmmsiJmKHtKvIQ2w04kMf2CukqUk8-9iU8_fRkgN0yZvo4K03uQIU2bth-zpULPw8HlhS4r4HLXmJuuAZQHKZNEr7-WSSmqLtWMAmxYBdts5LShwoi6EEX3G/s320/man-using-walker.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I didn’t know whether I should be
encouraged by their attendance, or discouraged by their lack of engagement in
any sort of dialogue. It was a tough crowd. Usually when I speak in public I
try to connect with some friendly faces in the audience. In small group
settings, I will ”tag” each listener in order to make some connection,
searching each person’s eyes for navigational clues of approval, disbelief or
uncertainty. But gleaning anything from this group proved challenging, if not
impossible. Except for my host, who had been responsible for my invitation,
this somber troupe of seniors seemed to have left their smiles in some secret
Sphinx -like place in the past.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Defeated, discouraged and mute, they
remained unresponsive, leaving me to answer my own questions, whether
rhetorical or not. Like prisoners attending mandatory rehabilitation classes, I
wondered if any of them would value or remember anything I said by the time they
completed their shambling journey back to their chosen isolation.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsHqyKSKhqveFtB1fAT5LOJRPdXsSJWyezhcE8YhwOhBMHIrDbec-6J-y5vds13P5-d_ibIZ3JTyO7luwp4x67VgF7QgPnlxhVzr22b7zpeRpv_IS0olF-r_yrDIzD-Me6eGkCqvqBQRQ/s1600/loneliness+with+aging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsHqyKSKhqveFtB1fAT5LOJRPdXsSJWyezhcE8YhwOhBMHIrDbec-6J-y5vds13P5-d_ibIZ3JTyO7luwp4x67VgF7QgPnlxhVzr22b7zpeRpv_IS0olF-r_yrDIzD-Me6eGkCqvqBQRQ/s1600/loneliness+with+aging.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What have we done?” I asked myself. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">As I looked around the room I found myself
comparing two scenarios. On one side there were the interactions I recently enjoyed
with students who probed, questioned and found it difficult to remain quiet for
any length of time. Those engagements seemed diametrically opposed to this
gathering of elders, who neither questioned nor commented, apparently
preferring silence. What happened in the 60 years between the ages of 20 and
80? Immediately realizing how close I am to the latter, I found a nameless fear
slowly seeping into my soul. Surely, aging is more than just surviving. Life
must be more than an endurance test that we will inevitably fail. What will
prevent me drowning in the “slough of despond” as I age? What will save me from
the self-pity of a shrinking solitude?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_cFXPvk8qkcAeKkPyRy6ooeSfc8b5aSkrh-23N6g6FrMk7b3YHJhX_4imJMEoyZZTA4M6uqVceKZ-rZP-eZhksc8rEJbRmoZdGL-Ob1jp-k4cYZMrZ6WvQlDp9l5gHlF1UpAGg6VKDAwJ/s1600/old+man+with+hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_cFXPvk8qkcAeKkPyRy6ooeSfc8b5aSkrh-23N6g6FrMk7b3YHJhX_4imJMEoyZZTA4M6uqVceKZ-rZP-eZhksc8rEJbRmoZdGL-Ob1jp-k4cYZMrZ6WvQlDp9l5gHlF1UpAGg6VKDAwJ/s1600/old+man+with+hands.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We aging males, entering the “retirement”
era, are left with many demanding questions, perhaps best summarized in the one
posed by John C. Robinson book’s title: ”What [do] aging men really want?” We
can all agree that we don’t want to feel threatened, angry, afraid, useless,
embarrassed, regretful, bitter, or insecure as we age (or prematurely
experience aging due to the far from gentle erosion of Parkinson’s disease).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But what do we really want? Giving up
is not acceptable. Perhaps there might be one answer to be found in the final
words of the poem, “Ulysses”, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Tho’ We are not now that
strength which in old days</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Moved earth and heaven,
that which we are, we are; </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> One equal temper of heroic
hearts,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Made weak by time and
fate, but strong in will </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> To strive, to seek, to
find, and not to yield.</span></div>
</div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-53898805964419002692019-05-29T17:59:00.000-07:002019-05-29T17:59:50.563-07:00Just Leave Me Alone!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When life’s circumstances seem to trap you, squeezing you in
their grip, applying increasing pressure and demanding a response to questions
that are bombarding your universe like incoming meteors, everything gets messy.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDsfNsDs0y8tU23Xoj-wAEXlsubq5_RZRmhf-8YHw4BAphQ0X7v3SbHJn_clzyUEQn8KuKLdl1wctdhTReMPSysm_D_Q6w0fmm9jZ-03pbU3atuCYz9En_OPaLP6yywsgOgtg22BZSRNnP/s1600/Meteor_Crater-browse-580x351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="580" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDsfNsDs0y8tU23Xoj-wAEXlsubq5_RZRmhf-8YHw4BAphQ0X7v3SbHJn_clzyUEQn8KuKLdl1wctdhTReMPSysm_D_Q6w0fmm9jZ-03pbU3atuCYz9En_OPaLP6yywsgOgtg22BZSRNnP/s320/Meteor_Crater-browse-580x351.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
We feel out of control (as if we ever were). Death, disease, disability,
discouragement, depression, disorientation or disaster - and these are just the
things that start with the D - threaten our daily existence. We find ourselves
scrambling for cover, digging a foxhole, curling up in a ball, or hiding our
eyes to shut out the fear, the pain, the inevitability.<br />
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“Just leave me alone!”, we shout to no one and nothing in
particular. Can’t we just make it all go away? Can’t we just fix it?<o:p></o:p></div>
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The answer is “No”. We might be able to deny the situations
we face for a while. Difficulties might be delayed somewhat. But ultimately, we
must deal with the tough stuff, face our fears, fight back, accept suffering
and sacrifice as necessary, or at least inescapable, parts of living.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lately, too many friends are being confronted by the
harshest of realities; difficulties from divorce to dying, and a veritable <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">invasion
of other sad events. Sometimes, like missiles, these struggles come in
clusters, as if the destruction caused by one is not enough.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY4H2P6-8OW8rlv1fzenzL5EY1csst73Z_BJnhIjLgPRKkplzRJdSeW4jPh8zrkFqPC74Hq8XyfFJI4WduSsBqWr9RNiQbXUMIBjATPj2p6uh3CEsA5ri-CTTS6jr5rRJjZtoGQsWPXg5O/s1600/incoming+missiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="531" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY4H2P6-8OW8rlv1fzenzL5EY1csst73Z_BJnhIjLgPRKkplzRJdSeW4jPh8zrkFqPC74Hq8XyfFJI4WduSsBqWr9RNiQbXUMIBjATPj2p6uh3CEsA5ri-CTTS6jr5rRJjZtoGQsWPXg5O/s320/incoming+missiles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When it all seems too much, too hard, where do we turn? <span style="background: #FCFCFC; color: #333333;">The Greek philosopher Epictetus said,
"We cannot choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how
we respond to them".</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But let me
add, d</span>oing life alone, especially in the crucible when heat and pressure
so easily overwhelm, is not the answer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We are designed for interdependence, relationship</span>,
community. We cannot hope to prevail on our own. We need to share the burdens,
the pain and the tragedy, especially when they don’t make sense. We need the
freedom to ask” Why”, while knowing that there is no obvious answer. We need
caring listeners to be our mirror. We need allies to help us fight back,
maintain the hope regardless of the odds. But in the process we must risk being
misunderstood, rejected, and disappointed by others. After all, we are far from
perfect ourselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="about:invalid#zClosurez" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for world parkinson's congress japan" border="0" height="124" src="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" width="200" /></a>P.S. While drafting this post I felt alone. I had planned to be attending the World Parkinson's Congress in Japan next week. I was looking forward to being there mostly to spend time together with friends from around the world who are part of Parkinson's disease community. Unfortunately, I will not be there. Maybe 2022? In the meantime, let's stand together. As Michael J Fox said,<strong style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Merriweather, serif; line-height: 1.1em; transition: all 0.7s ease 0s;">“We may each have our own individual Parkinson’s, but we all share one thing in common. Hope”</strong></div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-5507639365128762442019-05-25T19:56:00.000-07:002019-05-27T10:31:32.234-07:00From Graduates to Grandparents <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfqH2FHP-8MKvjhWykbg4LZnbXpuSKi2so9P768dXULlf9MiqPDdN4-gZP1eZV_KD4sLENNqE3aqUUliIBKZXY_1DnRVFgyTCs45_s0luzMz7YoHe4KO9JiYM_xwQB-GMEJCEjrzQWW4k/s1600/ubc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="293" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfqH2FHP-8MKvjhWykbg4LZnbXpuSKi2so9P768dXULlf9MiqPDdN4-gZP1eZV_KD4sLENNqE3aqUUliIBKZXY_1DnRVFgyTCs45_s0luzMz7YoHe4KO9JiYM_xwQB-GMEJCEjrzQWW4k/s320/ubc.jpg" width="234" /></a>It has been a very long time; 40 years. And yet four decades
seems to have sped by in an instant. Memories had somehow been compressed and
stored in the archive function of my brain. Recall was the problem. Without the name-tags, facial recognition left
me stammering, trying to identify the elderly person holding out his or her
hand in greeting. Once identified, by furtive glances at name-tags, my
classmates and I launched into storytelling and exchanges of status reports. As I moved about the room from small group to
small group, each person took awkward small sips from their wine glasses. The 40<sup>th</sup> reunion scene reminded me
of hummingbirds hovering momentarily, probing newly-opened blossoms and then
moving on<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Careers had come and gone in the past four decades. “Retired”
had been added to the biography of many. A whole generation has grown up, and
in the process made many of us grandparents. The graduates of 1979 UBC Law
School were as diverse bunch, at least in terms of personality and background.
The career paths of those in attendance stretched across the gamut from
well-heeled executives, who had never practiced law, to retired judges. There
were politicians of every stripe and practitioners of every calling. A curious and
incongruent crowd of older folk, so disparate in their views and appearance
that an observant stranger would not have easily identified what they all had
in common. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Admittedly, I attended this event with some trepidation. The
legal profession rewards confident men and women who show no sign of weakness
or vulnerability. It was no secret that I had Parkinson’s disease. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no effective disguising its symptoms.
But, scanning the list of those of our class who had passed on, I realized it
was a privilege just to be in attendance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why do we hold reunions? Sure, there are those who are
simply curious and attend in order to extract the latest news, the juicy bits, just
to be “in the know”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps to others, the reunion was a sort of a <a href="https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/tontine" target="_blank">tontine</a>, or <a href="https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/dead_pool" target="_blank">death poo</a>l, where the last person alive “wins” and we attended to record the
fact that we were still contending for the prize.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m_3PN-4_EoIjFiCT1Yd-nixs_bERwW875wCMuzZSEHgr7m3klZ39ZIYFuoPHeo8Xj4pQ219ooCoUUze-2nyfhQ25C7puoUGBXF52DxUf24yuSVdt_ZrIZk13ojPNy_Lu_b7d41LPmjUY/s1600/ubc+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m_3PN-4_EoIjFiCT1Yd-nixs_bERwW875wCMuzZSEHgr7m3klZ39ZIYFuoPHeo8Xj4pQ219ooCoUUze-2nyfhQ25C7puoUGBXF52DxUf24yuSVdt_ZrIZk13ojPNy_Lu_b7d41LPmjUY/s1600/ubc+2.png" /></a>But I think there is something more benevolent in play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those years in law school were formative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not just because of the legal principles we
learned together, but there was a recognition, if somewhat ill-defined, that
our relationships with one another were important. Despite how different from
each other, we survived the crucible of those 3 years together. Despite the
competition, there was a genuine interest in each other, and even a recognition
of the need for mutual encouragement.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life, like law school, and Parkinson’s, is best lived by
taking the risk of sharing the experience with others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Otherwise, the challenges can easily drive us
to retreat, giving into the fear of rejection and misunderstanding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Driving home from last night’s reunion I thought of those of
my classmates who did not join us, and I wondered why they had stayed away. Could
it be they did not want to be judged or compared to others?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may take some courage, but whether it is attending
a reunion of old classmates or getting together with others who struggle with
PD, the benefits of taking the risk far outweigh the certainty of loneliness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
</div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-44029682992138026082019-05-18T19:18:00.000-07:002019-05-18T19:27:44.442-07:00You Inspire Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwz3TTs85zduI8Vo1x8gb01N61OYINTJwnBi4g36RLmHVrPDwVjebZkJ1QACT8bKuuGlo-e_mYolxqcG6NHIS3oSZulUYBm-PXvNl0KvHSg0e-8FolOCT296LmFjNXT4riK1OyNbNd2SVD/s1600/spinning-wool-spinning-wheels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="600" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwz3TTs85zduI8Vo1x8gb01N61OYINTJwnBi4g36RLmHVrPDwVjebZkJ1QACT8bKuuGlo-e_mYolxqcG6NHIS3oSZulUYBm-PXvNl0KvHSg0e-8FolOCT296LmFjNXT4riK1OyNbNd2SVD/s320/spinning-wool-spinning-wheels.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;">
For the first six years of my
life, I lived with my parents on my grandparents' farm. Both my parents worked,
so my Grandma Olga, provided daycare for me. This amounted to me remaining
within arm’s-length while she did her chores around the farm. She was a
hard-working, simple, immigrant woman. She had married my grandfather when she
was very young and had a total of 17 children (of which, 11 lived to
adulthood). She never went to school and could neither read nor write. She signed
her name with an X and never had a driver’s license. Her native language was
German, which meant that when she was angry with me for misbehaving, which
occurred frequently, she chastised me in German while wielding a hefty wooden
spoon aimed at my behind. I did not need to know German to understand exactly
what she meant. Grandma taught me to perform simple tasks, such as how to find
eggs that the chickens had hidden. She showed me how to milk the cow, and then
separate the cream from the milk by cranking the handle of the separator. I
often observed her carding wool, and then using a treadle-operated spinning
wheel in order to create yarn used to make sweaters and socks. Her chores were
endless. Grandma was on her feet from
before dawn, when she could be found in the farm kitchen making breakfast, until
it was dark and she was pulling the sheets off the clothesline so the beds
could be made. I do not remember her ever being ill or going on a
vacation. Little did I realize then, or
for many years after, how much my uneducated grandma <b>inspired</b> me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">To be inspiring we must be inspired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Scott Barry Kaufman, a psychologist
at the University of Pennsylvania, wrote an article for the Harvard Business
Review called "Why Inspiration matters". In it, he said,
"Inspiration allows us to transcend our ordinary experiences and
limitations. We often overlook the important role of inspiration. Inspiration
transforms a person from experiencing a culture of apathy to experiencing a
world of possibility."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">What exactly does it mean for you to
be inspired? The root meaning of "inspire" comes from the idea,
"to breathe in".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simply put,
we need to breathe in (be inspired) before we breathe out (be inspiring).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">What, or who, is the ultimate source
of our inspiration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see,
"Inspiration does not come <u>from</u> us, but <u>through</u> us." This
is a radical statement in today's rational, humanistic world. It takes us out
of the centre of creation and compels us to recognize that we do not “own”
inspiration. It is a gift. A gift we must share in our own unique way, just as
my Grandma did. We cannot keep it to ourselves. We must breathe out.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2qo0uw5h8BMfA2M1b453pCwVOn_C4VkeWljEznOFK9OsNHrQk3bNoW_GKvYGycs8ojD0AgbMR_irWLN4kjABUiHSEZH3oVGO23isuLiNjxj5MNmwOShroX35rY-xYcOmdl6T1FnOmbXrj/s1600/Inspiration-words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2qo0uw5h8BMfA2M1b453pCwVOn_C4VkeWljEznOFK9OsNHrQk3bNoW_GKvYGycs8ojD0AgbMR_irWLN4kjABUiHSEZH3oVGO23isuLiNjxj5MNmwOShroX35rY-xYcOmdl6T1FnOmbXrj/s320/Inspiration-words.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Over the past six years, I have been
inspired by many students. They have given me a gift by sharing their stories. They
have touched my heart. Because each of us our own way can inspire others, we can
change the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">We all need to engage this world -- a
world that desperately needs to experience love, compassion, reconciliation,
and hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I challenge you to ask
yourself, "How can I inspire others?" For many of us, myself
included, we need an inspirational launching pad into the adventures to come.
We need to look for, listen for, and seek the breath of inspiration that will
come to you.</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-no-proof: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape alt="Image result for picture of inspiration" id="Picture_x0020_2" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 263.15pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 468pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
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</v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">To those of you who struggle
sometimes with finding inspiration amidst the frustration, pain, self-doubt and
rejection resulting from Parkinson’s disease, let your transparency, your
achievements, your courage truly inspire others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as you do, you surely will change the
world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-53076519947732720022019-05-11T22:50:00.000-07:002019-05-12T17:48:23.267-07:00May Day! May Day! May Day!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
Starting
on May 1, this repetitive phrase echoed in my head. These are words of a distress
call, used since 1923 by radio personnel to communicate extreme danger. In
fact, the phrase used has nothing to do with the month of May. It is simply the
English transformation of the French phrase “m’aider” (literally, ‘help me’).
That made sense to me.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYKuMlkIPGOSY7MS6w73MY6t3jeRd6KB5hMFKWVwkrLFogjZqL1VwqONtdIQJ3D9ZmsfQSpaAryv0hJws16i_czVZLafNnbmLn8unyh3D1i_oTJygGklelAf1DafHLwPtaeeC51IH0buE/s1600/wheretofromhere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYKuMlkIPGOSY7MS6w73MY6t3jeRd6KB5hMFKWVwkrLFogjZqL1VwqONtdIQJ3D9ZmsfQSpaAryv0hJws16i_czVZLafNnbmLn8unyh3D1i_oTJygGklelAf1DafHLwPtaeeC51IH0buE/s320/wheretofromhere.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">As
of May 1, I entered a phase of life that may present the greatest challenges yet.
I resist the word “retired“. It sounds too much like giving up. The idea of “Freedom
55” (or whatever) has always seemed to me like a nightmare more than a dream.
The word has so many connotations. Unneeded. Busy but barely useful.
Easily forgotten. Irrelevant. Losing touch with what was important.
Self-consumed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The
past six years have been a daily adventure. Energizing. Inspiring. Jam-packed
with challenges. It was living life to the fullest, feeling fulfilled. But as
of April 30, I am now more often than not characterized as retired” or
“semiretired”. There is more fear than freedom in that label. While I have
often yearned for more free time, it suddenly stares back at me from the empty
pages of my calendar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">May
Day! May Day! May Day! Help! How do I fight back against the impending sense of
purposelessness?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_4" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 206.15pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 137.15pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
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</v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The first day of May was the
beginning of my post-President life. I am trying to relax, rest and recuperate
from the busy schedule and mountaintop activities of the past few months. The
farewell events, extraordinarily kind comments, new title of “President
Emeritus”, and generous gifts were all gracious, if not embarrassing. But, as
thankful as I am, those are now in the past. What do I do now?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">This
post, and my return to blogging under the label of “Positively Parkinson’s”, is
my way of sharing the fears and falsehoods of this new chapter in my life. I
anticipate this season will present a broad spectrum of experiences, from
daring and dangerous at one end, to sadness and self-isolation at the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I
have often recommended to people caught in the turmoil of mixed emotions to ask
themselves question: “what are you afraid of?” So… when it comes to my current
state of life, what am I afraid of? Here are my top three:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Getting
old. While my Parkinson’s disease (diagnosed in 2006) seems to be largely under
control, thanks to my body responding well to the medications, I am worried
that the increased free time will simply mean more focus on the symptoms of my
disease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Irrelevance.
For the past six years, I have been fully engaged in trying to meet the demands
of a consuming job. While demanding, it was incredibly rewarding, and consumed
all of my available energy. But now what?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Loneliness.
While I enjoyed the support of an extraordinary woman, who has stuck by me for
more than 45 years now, I have become accustomed to maintaining many
relationships, in large part because of the roles I have played. Will these
friendships dissipate over time?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">None
of these three fears is likely to be resolved easily. But, in the meantime, I
also recognize I need to seek solutions that give time to self-care. Balance.
Learning how to avoid reacting to every request with a thoughtless, “Yes”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps,
above all, I need to be willing to risk reaching out with a personal, “May Day”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-63617892396856642702019-05-09T19:07:00.000-07:002019-05-11T21:25:17.629-07:00It Is Good to Be Back<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A little more than six years ago, I accepted the position of
serving as President of Trinity Western University. I am confident that most
people probably thought I was out of my mind. After all, why would a
60-year-old with Parkinson’s disease accept such a challenging role? I am still
not sure I have an answer for that question, but the past six years have been
both the hardest and most rewarding of my life. I have learned more than I ever
thought possible (and enjoyed hanging out with the students).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKFcS0-7bEZEGdpNm9tTVpdTFIW7ukzeVeMmZvgrPnTIXNYuzbmPOjW63kLeJ32wMsg3Oju7m6LudR8ClPkZJGPw25zmCWbiRjAlE7i8BJsNNpBtUeFNUQ4PyW_KnamLFwR70ztkzLOx1/s1600/IMG_1355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKFcS0-7bEZEGdpNm9tTVpdTFIW7ukzeVeMmZvgrPnTIXNYuzbmPOjW63kLeJ32wMsg3Oju7m6LudR8ClPkZJGPw25zmCWbiRjAlE7i8BJsNNpBtUeFNUQ4PyW_KnamLFwR70ztkzLOx1/s320/IMG_1355.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I have missed writing this blog. And I promised myself
that when my term as president of the University ended, I would pick up my pen
(actually, my voice recognition software) and continue writing these posts. My
desire for this blog remains the same; to be encouraging to others through transparently sharing my life as a person with Parkinson’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some who may be reading this may be asking themselves the
question, “How did my Parkinson’s progress during these past six years?” Well,
the PD did not get better, but it did not get that much worse either. I was
pleasantly surprised that my symptoms did not worsen significantly. This minor
miracle certainly did not result from my complying with the doctor’s orders. My
neurologist strongly advised me to avoid stress, get lots of exercise, and ensure I get enough sleep. I did none of these. The job was so demanding that I
just did not seem to have time. It could be that my work simply constituted a
sophisticated form of denial. In any event, I feel about the same as I did six
years ago. I chalk it up to being one of those people with Parkinson’s who
respond well to the standard medication (carbidopa levodopa). I do not take the
slow progression of the disease for granted. In fact, I count each day as a gift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, at the age of 66, I am returning to the
practice of law in the hopes that I can still “serve as a trusted problem
solver”<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1026966222179181004#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="line-height: 107%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
. In future posts I will let you in on some of my plans for the future. For
now, know this: life is still in an adventure and having Parkinson’s disease just
adds to the challenge. I plan to remain ‘Positively Parkinson’s’.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1026966222179181004#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="line-height: 107%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> this
is taken from my law firm's Mission Statement, which can be found by <a href="http://www.kuhnco.net/Values.html" target="_blank">clicking here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1026966222179181004.post-41812372680889366882018-07-18T20:25:00.000-07:002018-07-18T20:25:05.417-07:00Parkinson's Disease: Adversity or Adventure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
About six months ago I was challenged to do a Ted Talk. After writing the narrative of the talk, competing to be one of the finalists, and then writing and rewriting, practising and practising more, I had the opportunity on May 30 to give my talk. It has the same title as this post. It can be found on the TEDx YouTube site <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59XFt6t2syM&feature=youtu.be" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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I must admit that it was a lot more work than I thought it would be, but it was also a lot more rewarding in terms of learning what it takes to produce one of these talks. I think the most satisfying aspect of this "adventure" was the thought that this might be an encouragement to some; encouragement to be transparent about the challenges we Parky people face every day, and encouragement to choose adventure and the positive attitude that goes with it.<br />
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So please feel free to pass this along, provide your comments, share as you feel inclined.<br />
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<a href="https://youtu.be/59XFt6t2syM" target="_blank">LINK IS HERE</a> and I was to.</div>
Bob Kuhnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04002673722921780759noreply@blogger.com0