From Graduates to Grandparents

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^th reunion scene reminded me of hummingbirds hovering momentarily, probing newly-opened blossoms and then moving on

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.

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.  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.

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”.

Perhaps to others, the reunion was a sort of  a tontine, or death pool, where the last person alive “wins” and we attended to record the fact that we were still contending for the prize.

But I think there is something more benevolent in play.  Those years in law school were formative.  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.

Life, like law school, and Parkinson’s, is best lived by taking the risk of sharing the experience with others.  Otherwise, the challenges can easily drive us to retreat, giving into the fear of rejection and misunderstanding.

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?  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.   

Feeling a Little Shaky

"Order in court" the clerk abruptly announced, as if those of us in the courtroom were soldiers waiting for a commanding officer. I jumped unnecessarily, but characteristically, having become a little edgy lately due to lack of a good night’s sleep. Immediately my tremor spiked up a notch or two, setting me to vibrating like a paint can in the grip of one of those shaker machines at the hardware store. Bad timing!

Everyone stood up in traditional respect for the black robed judge who strode through the security door in the back corner.  She climbed the three steps to the dais and, half bowing, half nodding to those in attendance, unceremoniously plunked herself down in the overstuffed red leather chair behind her bench. It was 9:30 Monday morning and another day had begun in Court of Appeal Chambers. Unfortunately, the comparatively small area behind the "bar" that separated the public gallery from the remainder of the room had too few chairs to accommodate the lawyers who had gathered to gossip while waiting for Her Ladyship to arrive. As a result, there was a professional sort of scurrying that happened when she did arrive, as if the music had stopped in a game of musical chairs. I had come early and secured my favorite spot, close to the door so that I did not have to climb over anybody to get out.

As the judge's list of matters was being read by the court clerk, I felt my right leg bouncing up and down as if I was at a barn dance marking double time to a polka, while my right arm seemed to be furiously strumming an imaginary banjo. But before I could survey the room to determine who might be watching my musical miming abilities, number 7 on the judge's list was called. It was my turn.

It was not all that difficult an argument to make, but if my noticeable tremor was misinterpreted as fear you would think this was an appearance in front of all 9 judges at the Supreme Court of Canada. Sitting on my hand proved useless and short-lived as I had to stand to make my presentation to the judge. I chose what seemed to be the best alternative and used my hands more dramatically, gesturing and moving my papers about at the risk of spreading them on the floor around the small podium.

Fortunately, it took little persuading to get the order I needed, my opponent being firmer in stance but much less prepared. Áfter victory was pronounced by the judge I gathered the papers that I had needlessly shuffled, stuffing them into my black barristers bag, and marched as confidently as I could out into the hallway.

It would have been fruitless, and a little foolish, to stop at any time to explain to the court that I had not taken my medication in the morning due to my overly zealous and lengthy preparation. Although the idea of saying, "do not mind me, I am having a bad day with my Parkinson's", had crossed my mind, I was concerned it might have been mistaken for a lack of confidence in my argument that would follow. In the end I tried, without any success, to just ignore it, hoping that everyone else would as well.

As I walked out into the cold October rain I realized that as long as I was moving no one really noticed my shaking. Besides, I imagined halfheartedly, it could just be excessive shivering in the cold. But I knew that the events of the morning would increasingly repeat themselves in different environments over the years to come. It will become necessary to learn how to accept what my uncooperative body is doing, despite the likely discomfort of others with their questioning looks.

This is part of the PD progression that I have not yet resolved how to handle. Trying to hide the symptoms seems immature, even foolhardy. But it was a natural response, and I am now left wondering what other response might "work".

It was later in the day, while talking with another member of our firm, that I realized it was the bully, fear, that I need to wrestle into submission. Fear that I would be viewed as less capable, less competent, less confident; all necessary traits of my trade. Fear that all the things I had worked 30 years to build would crack and finally crumble under the influence of my own personal quaking.

I cannot live in fear, cowering in a cave of my own making. I must have faith and courage, both of which are often in short supply. Days like today prove that fear is often based on lies. I am the same person as I always have been; I am just feeling a little shaky today.

Parkinson's, Wine and Old Friends

Relationships with old friends are like wines; the good ones usually improve with age, becoming richer, deeper and more intoxicating, while the others of lesser quality lose their flavour. This was proven last night.

It actually started 30 years ago, in September of 1976, when some 179 mostly young students (me being one of them) met for the first time in classes or the "Interaction Area".  Someone lacked creativity, but that is what they called the lounge area in the bunker style building of the University of British Columbia Law School. Three years later, almost all of us were unleashed to "practice" law on an unsuspecting public. Can you imagine the fear of those first clients if the truth had been known? "Hi, my name is Gerald and I will be your lawyer today. I have a law degree but no experience so I will be practicing on you."

Of course, we learned about the law at law school. However, we never learned how to actually be lawyers until we began to "practice". In retrospect, it was like handing a scalpel to medical students, who had never performed an operation or even watched one (except on TV), and suggesting they go find someone to "practice" on. Young lawyers do not get supplied with cadavers for “practice”.

Fast-forward (and I mean fast) 30 years to a gathering of those same people, at least a reasonable sampling of them. The scene at the 30 Year Reunion of the Law School Class of 1979 was fascinating for numerous reasons. The usual differences in appearance were stereotypical. Some had aged well and others, well, they had aged.  Some put on weight and others looked like models.  Some were in Armani suits while others were in jeans.  There was the array of careers from personal life coach to an expert in “meteor law” (true!). There was a mining executive with a UBC librairy named after him and a significant number of judges.  And some of our class did not come for obvious reasons.

I was charged with giving a tribute to our classmate and friend, Hugh. As part of that 'in memoriam' I read my October 1, 2009 blog entry, "Round Multicoloured Bruises", which off-handedly mentioned my Parkinson's disease. I did not want to make a big deal of this disclosure, but I did not want to hide it either. I had tried to prepare myself for what I thought might be the responses. I knew that there would be no collective inhaled gasp, lawyers are far too controlled for that, but I was anticipating a variety of responses. Like uncorking a bottle of wine, I honestly did not know what to expect.

I was struck again by how awkward even old friends seemed to handle the news (only a few in the room knew of my diagnosis). Despite trying to be casual and take a "it's just a card I've been dealt" attitude with a chaser of "lots of people have it worse", few classmates mentioned it. Maybe they did not hear me, as apparently I was reading too quickly in my attempt to keep to my time allotment (something most lawyers find difficult, as was ably demonstrated by others later in the evening). Those that did comment seemed to have difficulty with words (not a common occurrence for members of the legal profession).

It seems to me that dealing with a person who has a disease or disability is difficult, even for my friends. There seems to be helplessness felt that does not sit comfortably with those more at home with corporate mergers, complex court cases or solving problems generally. PD just does not fit. And it cannot be hidden (at least for long) before an explanation needs to be given for the symptoms. So I had concluded that the risk had to be taken.

It may be groundless, and even a touch of paranoia, but I drove home wondering if I had just been labeled by most of my classmates.

Like the bottles of wine we auctioned for a law school scholarship fund, we all seem to want to know names and details so that we can define what, or who, is inside.  But it is time, which ages all things, that will provide proof of character and content.

A Secret

The upscale restaurant was quiet, except for the stealthy murmur of conversations at a few nearby tables, punctuated by a clinking of cutlery from time to time. We four lawyers sat by the window, sometimes peering out into the dark streetscape to watch a late evening commuter or two hurrying for home somewhere nearby. Paradoxically, I felt both tension and comfort at the table, as if two wrestlers were struggling for supremacy. But assessing the scene with the objectivity of a professional observer, I found this conflict almost normal and acceptable.  Except that I knew each one held a secret tightly and awkwardly in some hidden place.

There was Ed, the slightly tense, dark-haired barrister still in his court garb, having arrived earlier than the rest to enjoy a short liquid reprieve from the rigors of a trial that he announced was destined to run a number of weeks yet. He talked easily, as do those of our comrades who frequent the courtroom, somewhat preoccupied with the judicial battles of the day, most of which he had won. But he dared not disclose his secret.

Karen was confident, yet obviously caring and unconventional for a lawyer as she talked about the diversity of her roles within the legal profession. Her world seemed made up of people rather than focused on the technical issues that plague the billable time of most lawyers. Clearly she had the ability to succeed in any number of circles, as she described her relaxed relationships with names that everyone recognized. But she kept her secret safely hidden.

Ken, on the other hand, was casual. Older than the rest of us, he eschewed formality sporting shorts and sandals, regaling us with his counter-culture adventures as a reporter in his pre-law school days. There was a hint of homesickness in his voice as he reminisced about those days of his youth and its lopsided lack of schedule or steady income. He might have come close to betraying his secret, but he held back at the last minute it seemed.

I, however, was unable to contain my secret when the topic of Parkinson's disease unexpectedly leapt into the conversation like a lion's roar that could not be ignored and demanded of me my carefully concealed packet of truth. Ken had commented on a friend with PD and I knew I could protect the secret no more.  There was a barely noticeable catch in the breath of each of my 3 dinner companions, some forks hesitating in mid-air just a second as they each took in the news of my diagnosis. Their consequential questions were polite but understandably naïve because for the most part lawyers thrive in the rarified atmosphere of disease-free living. After 30 years of living out the role of a professional problem solver, advocate, diplomat and wordsmith, the old adage of "never let them see you sweat" was never truer.

It is not that lawyers lack compassion anymore than anyone else. It is just that in their world there is little opportunity to recognize or express vulnerability, or any other "softness". We are "fixers" who must stand firm and fight, staunchly and unemotionally defending our clients and protecting their rights. We cannot sacrifice the confidence of our clients; so no tears or looks of dread or dismay.

But despite how it felt to surrender my secret to my classmates, I knew that they had secrets too.  Ones that could only be unpacked when it was safe to do so, and where that "weakness" would not be despised or derided. Certainly, it was for those of us called to the bar a very rare circumstance that would allow any unveiling of the personally painful or the frightening. In fact, many of our professional friends will likely go to their graves wrapped in, and clinging to, their cloaks of self-confidence.

So my secret had been shared. But in doing so it had lost its power over me.  It was my hope that, opposite to that truly pitiful Gollum, the loss of my prized ring would empower and embolden others. And if not (even Gollum said, "They do not see what lies ahead"), I still do not think it was a mistake. For the truth will out, and better it is to be spoken first by me rather than about me. It has a marginally better chance of sustaining a semblance of reality that way, and I am less likely to be described as nearing my grave or courageously battling some crushing medical monster.

The tremor along my right side was more noticeable as I drove home that night. I wondered whether it was the disease inching along its inevitable path, or a physical manifestation of the regret that sometimes follows having told one's secret.