Death.
Parkinson’s.
When I mention to folks that I suffer from the latter, their minds immediately jump to the former. They say things like, “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
When they say those things, I feel awkward. I am not trolling for sympathy. I am simply stating a fact.
As a minister, when I preach or speak to groups, I like to get my Parkinson’s out of the way at the beginning, so the audience is less likely to think they are “so sorry” en masse.
I have a short joke I tell, about making a little extra income at Christmas by ringing the Salvation Army bell at the mall. People chuckle, then we can all get about our business.
I have been a ‘death kind of guy’ since my youth. In those days, my father would always seem to be the first driver to arrive at the scene of a fatal automobile accident. Once, he even discovered the body of a young woman scuba diver on the seashore who had drowned.
What does one do, happening upon upon tragedies like these? What words will you be able to muster with little or no time to consider them? Will feelings be a friend and guide, or a barrier?
It took much of my life to recognize that Dad’s gift wasn’t his ability to know what to do, it was his presence of calmness that made the difference. Anxiety born through another’s death feeds on itself, but so does calmness. Dying and grieving people are drawn to what chaplaincy training advises: “Be the least anxious presence in the room.”
So here I am. In mid-stage Parkinson’s.
My older brother once told me, “You know you are old when you realize you’re going to die.” It’s curious that now he is quite anxious about getting “old,” that same voice of wisdom that held forth decades ago, offered to a youth (me) who thought he was never going to die.
Parkinson’s continues to trot along with me. Singer songwriter Iris Dement has a tune that describes where I am at any given time. It’s titled, “Easy’s Gettin’ Harder Every Day.”
Ten years after diagnosis, PD has pared down my life’s activities. I no longer lead a Parkinson’s support group, or volunteer for my local hospice. I no longer do interim pastor work. However, I am loathe to give-up one particular activity.
My practice of presence is at work in an Oregon prison, leading men in an inmate grief group through the extra hardships of grieving lost loved ones who have died outside the gate. “Outside the gate” is so far away from the intense grief inside.
What to do to fight back against Parkinson’s? Or, is it my task merely to cope?
I recently attended a seminar given by a highly thought of physical therapist who specializes in PD exercise, a wonderful advocate of exercise as a way to live better and longer with Parkinson’s. He was so vigorous and engaging.
When it was over I mused, what words should I put on my gravestone: “He exercised” or “He took up the clarinet at age 68?”
Lately, I feel the need to make what’s left of my life less urgent.
Whenever the reaper comes for me, the gravestone will say, “He lived.”
I’ll let you know how it turns out.
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Photo by Luc Marshall from Pexels
Gregory Tatman is a minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA) and a chaplain in an Oregon prison. He lives in West Linn, Oregon, with his wife, Judy, and enjoys building boats and playing the clarinet.