Get Out Of the Shower!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Erosion of Parkinson's Disease

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

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

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

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

Parkinson’s and the Art of Getting Better

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am committed to getting better.

In Praise of Weakness

On the fourth of a series of four double axels, Kurt Browning, the superstar figure skater, fell to the ice, spoiling his otherwise perfect display of athletic artistry. The crowd in the arena drew a collective breath as he bounced back onto his feet, regained his composure and skated through the remainder of his routine. But his smile was not quite as carefree as it had been earlier in the evening's show.

He was not the only one to fall in the filmed-for-television premiere of "Holiday Festival on Ice". Other stars, like double Olympic gold medalist, Katia Gordeeva, missed a jump as well. Seeing any performer stumble evokes a reaction. But when world and Olympic champion skaters fall the scene leaves you feeling anxious and tender toward them. Your heart goes out to them. "I know how you must feel" you whisper to yourself. All that skill, hours of practice, fighting through hardships and challenges, only to fall when it counts, in the final analysis, the grande finale. “Disappointed” is not a sufficient descriptor. Shaken, self-doubting, crushed or even devastated, may be better. We have all been there.

The humanity of each star who had a flawed performance became even more evident when the audience was invited to stay for the retakes that were deemed necessary for taping of the television show. Kurt managed to pull off the same three spinning jumps but noticeably injured a muscle on the fourth jump, causing the 43 year old Canadian ice star to limp off, shaking his head, frustrated with what his body told him. There was no disdain for the failures the skaters experienced. No faultfinding or blaming. Instead, it was a perfect display of how to handle our human frailty, our weakness.

"Weakness" is not an attractive word. But there can be depth in the damaged soul, breadth in the battered body, and toughness in the tested and troubled mind. Did you ever notice that we are all drawn to share our struggles, our failures and weaknesses, with those who share theirs? It seems as if we are not really attracted to the famous, the flawless and the faultless when we feel bothered, burdened, or buried.

No one aspires to fail or evidence weakness, but to deny its existence is to allow it to breed no benefits. Even though we avoid our own vulnerability, we see the value of openness in others. We often feel most human and alive when life squeezes us longer or harder than we would like. In that sense, “No pain, no gain”. After all, name one person who has impacted the world for good that has not been brought low and tasted the bitterness of pain, sadness or loss. Greatness has little use for the spoiled and self-satisfied among us. They are pretenders, posers, too 'perfect' to lead us up out of hurt and rejection. It seems we cannot rise up unless we are first bought down. Indeed, our true heroes are chosen from the humble and homely.  They are deeply admired and loved because they show us real beauty and how the basest "beast" can become the best and most "beautiful" of our race. Take last year's mega-hit "Slumdog Millionaire", or almost any classic story.

Parkinson's disease too can mold men and women into models of human perseverance. Sharing our weakness can draw others out, allowing them to be vulnerable; who they really are. Author, Dr. James Houston once said, “True friendship is based on the mutual sharing of weakness”.

Weakness compels us to realize our need for others, allows us to be cared for; be loved. No one in a suit of armor touches real life. It is the bruised and battered that that draw us like a vacuum and can give us courage to man the battlements of our own often beleaguered lives.

Out of the crucible comes wisdom. Raw intelligence can often be just a braggart or a thief masquerading as the stuff of life. But it is a beggar who finds bread who is driven to share the source with other hungry hearts; while the proud and powerful disdain the weaknesses.

Parkinson’s or flawed performances, we can all benefit by sharing our human weaknesses, using them to learn how to live with and stay fighting those we cannot yet conquer.