Hurting
As the midday sun shines through our bedroom window, a few specks of dust dance through the air. I turn on the rustic coffee-brown ceiling fan that hangs over our bed and the dust immediately vanishes.
My wife Tracey is out running errands with our daughters, Meredith and Holly. The three of them baked peanut butter and M&M cookies before leaving the house and a wonderfully warm smell lingers in every room.
I sit down on the bed, and the deep blues in our comforter and pillow shams offer me momentary calm. My eyes wander to Meredith’s colorful cubist self-portrait hanging on the wall next to my side of the bed. Then I turn to Holly’s simple black silhouette, which hangs on the adjacent wall, closer to the end of the bed. I smile, rubbing my hand back and forth across the soft comforter before lying back on the mattress.
Staring at the ceiling fan as it slowly spins, I take-off on the roller coaster I have come to call “the Low Dopamine Express,” which has become all too familiar in the last few months. I climb slowly up Apathy Hill, flatten out for a moment before speeding down Sadness Drop, and then, at top speed, I spring quickly sideways into the long pull toward Anxiety Alley before slowing down, turning again, and starting the upward climb once more.
It’s the spring of 2017, and six months have passed since my Parkinson’s diagnosis at the age of 48.
Plagued by questions, darkness hovers and hope evades me.
Talking to Myself
Almost immediately after my diagnosis, at the urging of a massage therapist, I began a brief stretching routine before getting out of bed each morning. It relieves muscle stiffness, helps me focus, and provides a good start to the day.
One morning, as I lie in bed and stretch my hands, wrists, and forearms, but before moving to leg, ankle, and foot stretches, I say these words:
I am grateful for another day.
I will do my best to make it good.
I will focus on my strengths.
I will be hopeful.
I say the words aloud, several times, so that I hear myself speak them. I repeat them the next morning, too, and the next. Soon thereafter, I begin saying them not only in the morning but several times throughout the day, and especially when I start to worry, feel afraid, or otherwise despair.
I am grateful for another day.
I will do my best to make it good.
I will focus on my strengths.
I will be hopeful.
Over time, and with practice, I notice changes in how I think about my life with Parkinson’s, how I feel about the challenges it presents, and even how I mourn the losses I’ve already experienced as well as those I anticipate.
I’ve begun talking myself into hope.
I know this, not because the pain of loss, fear, and uncertainty goes away, but because I begin to see things differently.
Hoping
One new way of seeing things comes to me in a dream.
I see a tree. Tall, thick trunked, and sturdy, its broad canopy reaches dozens of feet across the sky and provides generous shade in every direction. Similar to a red cedar in my front yard, this tree in my dream stands alone, independent, its green leafy cover having long pushed out any close presence of other trees. Appearing confident and robust, it conveys protection, safety, and support for life.
Then, I notice a field of bright yellow wildflowers. They cover the landscape as far as I can see. As a gentle wind blows, this floral blanket takes on different contours, its colorful blooms swaying back and forth. They twist and turn through the countryside in solidarity, petal to petal, stem to stem, displaying resilience and radiating beauty, regardless of the wind’s strength or direction.
As I take in their splendor, I see a kind different of strength. It’s forged from togetherness, freedom, and the resolve to be what they are. Nothing more.
I often conjure up their memory.
Especially when talking myself into hope.
_______
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
Allan Cole is a professor in The Steve Hicks School of Social Work at The University of Texas at Austin. Diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2016, at the age of 48, he serves on the Board of Directors at Power for Parkinson’s, a non-profit organization that provides free exercise, dance, and singing classes for people living with Parkinson’s disease in Central Texas, and globally via instructional videos. He also serves as a Community Advocate for ParkinsonsDisease.net, writing columns about living well with Parkinson’s. He is author or editor of 10 books on a range of topics related to bereavement, anxiety, and spirituality. Currently, he is writing a book on counseling people with Parkinson’s disease, which will be published by Oxford University Press.
Follow him on Twitter @PDWiseBlog