You Inspire Me

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 inspired me.

To be inspiring we must be inspired.

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."

What exactly does it mean for you to be inspired? The root meaning of "inspire" comes from the idea, "to breathe in".  Simply put, we need to breathe in (be inspired) before we breathe out (be inspiring).

What, or who, is the ultimate source of our inspiration.  You see, "Inspiration does not come from us, but through 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.

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.

We all need to engage this world -- a world that desperately needs to experience love, compassion, reconciliation, and hope.  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.

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.  And as you do, you surely will change the world.

What Do Curling and Parkinson's Disease Have in Common?

It is such a strange contest. Men and women approach, point at a distant target, and then launch themselves onto a sheet of ice from a "hack" in order to throw 40 pound "stones", sometimes called the "hammer", at a "house" located some 120 feet away, using aggressive phrases such as, "take out", and "guard". The players involved do not necessarily look like typical athletes. It could not be concluded that the best players were the best conditioned. They wear little in the way of special garb or protective gear because injury is rare.

Such is the game of curling, a permanent Olympic sport since 1998. It is a game of oddities, especially when compared with the thrills, spills, speed and stamina of other Olympic competitions. In fact, some would argue it has no place on the medal podium reserved for those that evidence unquestionable athletic prowess. Despite any similarities, it is very different than shuffleboard. It has been compared to horseshoes and golf, and also nicknamed "chess on ice". Finesse, skill and strategy combine in competition to form this highly challenging game played in winter climates the world around. Although the Scottish inventors of the game are still tough competition, Canadians have become dominant adversaries in this poorly understood and often derided sport.

Strange as it may seem in a country, and city, hooked on hockey, curling was the game I most wanted to see at the Olympics currently being held in Vancouver. This morning I took the risk of heading to the curling venue ticketless, praying for a friendly and desperate scalper. My prayers were answered by the first gentleman I met as he held up a ticket for a well-placed seat and said, "$80 and it is yours". Given the modest $15 premium over face value, a small price to pay for having left my decision to the last minute, and the fact that the place was sold out, I thought it was a bargain. In fact, this was a bargain when compared with any of the other Olympic sports where tickets ranged from $150 up to many thousands of dollars. The value is especially evident when you realize that you could watch four curling matches concurrently, with a good view of each.

The game of curling is easily distinguishable from the other Olympic competitions in a number of ways. Some would even call it the ugly duckling of the Olympics. First, it is the slowest paced game, involving no one traveling at a speed faster than a brisk walk, albeit on ice. Movement on the ice surface is comprised of shuffles and a brief sliding on one foot, sometimes using a long handled brush for support or "sweeping" none of which are measured for technical merit nor artistry. It is played on the smallest surface of all other winter sports. As long as you have reasonable strength, a deft touch and excellent eyesight, and of course a lot of skill and many years practice, there is nothing to preclude you from being the best in the world. It is not unusual to find among each country’s 4 member teams the oldest Olympians competing (this year, the Canadian, Carolyn Darbyshire at the age of 46)

I love watching curling. Mostly because it represents an enjoyable chapter in my youth, it also reflects pride in my family members, given that my nephews, Brad and Ryan Kuhn, were Canadian Junior Champions, and then World Junior Champions, in 2000. But I love the game because it is an oddball in the world of sports. It reminds me of Parkinson's disease. Just as the sport is often misunderstood, so it is with PD. Just as the disease involves a small team committed to a common strategy, each member utilizing their best efforts with their unique skill sets, so too does Parkinson's. It is a slow game, but nonetheless may require you to dig down deep and maintain an attitude of courage over a series of battles where the opponent wants nothing more than to take you out of play. Any of us could relate to someone on a curling team. They are everyday folk, just like the people with Parkinson's. Perhaps we could learn something from these Olympians with their camaraderie, commitment, consistency and caring to do their very best.

Parkinson's in Paradise - Caught a Cold in the Caribbean

It is relatively easy to feel sorry for yourself when you catch a cold on the first day of a Caribbean cruise.

It all started several weeks before we were to leave on our short but much-anticipated vacation aboard the Emerald Princess out of Fort Lauderdale. As is often the case, it took a week or more of working 14 to 16 hour days to get ready to take one week off, therefore I arrived at the hotel in Florida the night before our ship’s embarkation, feeling rundown and exhausted. More importantly, or so I thought, I was minus my suitcase, which held all of my clothes and, stupidly, my Parkinson's medication. The bag and its needed contents had apparently gone AWOL at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, aided and abetted by some practical-joking baggage handler. Apparently he or she thought it would be hilarious as he imagined me, dressed in my latest Lululemon clothes with my right side shaking with the necessary velocity to gain flight, trying to convince the maître d' that I should be permitted entry with my wife and friends into the Botticelli dining room on formal night. The American Airlines missing baggage department assured me they would launch a full-scale search and recovery mission in order to track down my truant luggage, ensuring that it would be captured, taken into custody and transported under guard on the next flight to Fort Lauderdale, arriving at the hotel late that evening. Long after midnight I gave up waiting and fell asleep with images of looking seriously out of sync with my well-dressed wife.

I did not feel 100% when I woke up the next morning, but chalked that up to a less than restful sleep and the stress of finding out that my bag had still not arrived. As the morning ebbed away, my frustration began shifting to optimism as the lost baggage police had indicated my overstuffed suitcase had indeed been taken prisoner and was supposed to be delivered to the hotel. I insisted that I needed it by no later than 11 a.m., as that was the time our ride to the pier was to pick us up. Caught between angry, anxious and still exhausted, I sat in the hotel lobby to wait, and promptly fell asleep. Unbeknownst to me, American Airlines had taken my insistence on meeting the 11 a.m. deadline seriously, and missing that deadline they had the bag impounded in a warehouse with millions of other mislaid suitcases. My wife woke me about 12:15 p.m. to tell me that after speaking to an American Airlines supervisor explaining in no uncertain terms that things were getting critical she had discovered that the warehouse was a scant 8 blocks from the hotel, and had arranged a taxi to drive us there to pick up the bag and transport us to the ship’s gangplank. By the time we arrived at the pier I had a bad headache and a good case of the shakes, but at least we were finally boarding to begin our tropical time away.

My next 3 days were spent largely in our cabin (thank goodness for a balcony), only venturing out with a large stash of tissues to staunch the tide that would erupt from my increasingly runny nose. Fellow voyagers scowled at me as I attempted to avoid spraying them with my sneezes. Even crewmembers invariably sought out one of the innumerable hand sanitizer machines every time I went by them stifling my hacking cough and sniffing incessantly. The alliteration was not lost on me: catching a cold on a cruise in the Caribbean!

But despite the lack of cold medicine on board the otherwise well-stocked cruise ship, and notwithstanding my antisocial behavior as I disappeared for a nap every couple hours, I began to appreciate that things could be worse. I could be at work attempting to function in Stoic fashion, pressed by demands I felt ill-equipped to meet. Instead, I had a whole week to recover in the sun, enjoying 80 plus temperatures and unparalleled scenery, sharing excellent food and entertainment with good friends. I could sleep whenever I felt like it, which was often, and likely return home at the end of the week modestly refreshed and rested. Having a cold in the Caribbean was not so bad.

This led me to think about living with Parkinson's disease in less developed countries where good medical care is either unavailable or unaffordable. Living in Canada, I am blessed by having, in effect, Parkinson's in paradise. The standard of living and medical health system enables me to have the best of care, economic access to a variety of medications and the expectation that I will live as long as most.

It is easy to feel sorry for ourselves. But there are many who have little medical or other support in their fight against the fear and uncertain future that follows a diagnosis of PD, if such a diagnosis is available. Comparatively, we are fighting Parkinson’s in paradise.

Leaving a $300 Legacy?

What kind of legacy will you leave? More than $300?

This was the question I asked as I mounted the stage and stood at the podium wondering how to say something significant in less than 10 minutes. The crowd was mostly older, 60s and 70s, but evident among them were the young men and women who were the focal point of the event. The seniors looked earnest, as if they were, like me, well aware they faced a much shorter future than the students sitting at their tables. The young people also looked earnest, but with a different expression. It was one of hope and opportunity in the frontier of the future yet to be. I was there as an alumnus, sharing the commitment our family had to providing scholarships to students who attend Trinity Western University, and encouraging others to do likewise. I spoke about legacy.  It had come to me while doing chores in the backyard that morning, madly scrambling to finish raking leaves while at the same time searching my aging and somewhat outmoded mental database…more like a creaky Rolodex… for a topic to talk on).

At the same time as I was speaking, I was painfully aware of my uncooperative quivering hand clutching my belt as I suppressed the question that lurked in the back of my mind. What kind of legacy can a person with Parkinson's disease leave?

We all will leave a legacy, even those with Parkinson's. Perhaps more so.  But what kind of legacy?

It is amazing how many ways in which the lives that we live might leave an indelible mark on others. Let me challenge you, as I did myself this past weekend, to see our lives as significant, one way or another.

For some the easy legacy to leave is money. That brings me to my $300 legacy.  It was in the form of a 1970 graduation scholarship that was invested in me in order that I could go to college. I was an average student who was not challenged much by school, wore his hair down to his shoulders and drove his blue Volkswagen Beetle fast and recklessly. I would not have impressed many, but I often remember thinking as I climbed to the stage 39 years ago to receive that relatively small scholarship, "It is a good thing they do not really know me.". But little did I realize at the time how that small scholarship would enable me to begin an undergraduate degree, which led to a law degree, that led to a modestly successful career (30 years so far) of fulfilling service, and the pleasure of building a law firm. Ironically, or perhaps fittingly, it has now led to the ability to annually contribute so that others might have the same opportunity.

While many struggle to even afford to pay for their Parkinson's meds, everyone can leave a legacy of friendships and family. Whether we are grandparents, uncles and aunts, brothers and sisters, or close friends, we will be remembered for the contributions we made to other people's lives. It is a legacy of relationships we will leave. Investments made in people.

For those of us seeking to confront the challenge of Parkinson's disease, will we be remembered as fighters or complainers? Will people remember us for our constant recitation of pains and pill dosages? Or will they think of us for having imparted some of the wisdom that comes from fighting the battles, and even winning a few?

I am extremely thankful for the people who invested in me. I owe them something. I need to reinvest in others. I need to leave memories minted in the minds of others that encourage, not discourage. Recollections that lead to laughter, not sadness. I need to model perseverance and courage so that others who follow and are forced to face the bully of Parkinson's are better prepared.

I was speechless as I left that stage, realizing that I had been speaking most loudly to myself. Now that is a challenge!

Deer in the Headlights

There were fewer than 100 attendees arranged around tables in front of me as the lapel mike was clipped onto my shirt. They were mostly seniors (a rank I will soon achieve, or have entered at some restaurants), none of whom I knew. Even so, I strained to discern the emotions in the eyes staring at me. Fear was what I saw. Faced with that observation, what could I say? Of course there was fear. They had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease and were attending the "New Diagnosis Seminar" sponsored by the Parkinson's Society of British Columbia. And I was there to talk about living with PD, the topic of this blog and an all-consuming focus for me.

Encouraging the small crowd was a challenge. It is difficult to convince those who's world has been rocked by news that there would be extraordinary challenges ahead. Some days might be tear-stained, painful and dark. At times a sense of hopelessness might creep into the mind and seek to blot any sunshine or smile. I knew the sense of isolation and dread that simmered just below the surface. Even those who just came with loved ones who had been diagnosed with PD were asking the question (whether aloud or in their hearts), "What do I do now?" It was the reason they had all come.

This was no time to entertain with platitudes or make shallow promises. I wanted to inspire. I was incredibly inadequate for the job, but I knew that I had to do my best. Words have great potential. They can be powerful. As Buddha apparently stated, "Words have the power to destroy or heal. When words are true and kind, they can change the world." Strangely, I had been looking forward to this moment. Perhaps it was because it required me to test the mantra of this blog: we can live positively with Parkinson's. Would that sincere suggestion, that call to arms, be enough to rally the sinking spirits of those in the audience. It is not enough to believe what I was saying; it had to be a part of me. Those listening would know if it were nothing but hypocritical hyperbole.

The strange thing about speaking engagements is that you never really know how well or poorly you did. The applause may be flat or overdone. Those who speak to you after may be falsely flattering. There is no litmus test for a well-done speaking engagement.

And if I were looking for some sudden salvation result, those I talked to afterwards still had the 'deer in the headlights' look in their eyes. But they were simply betraying a feeling I still have and try to confront from time to time. There is no easy way to replace the neurologist’s declaration that it is 'positively Parkinson's' with the determination that you can live with Parkinson's positively. The diagnosis can deafen us and often drowns out the positive. Regardless, we are left with one decision: How will we live with this?