Gone
Gone is my girl self who flirted and dated and danced the night away.
Gone is my romantic self who hoped HaShem would send a special someone for me before it was over.
Gone is self-indulgence, smugness, and feelings of giddy expectation.
I respond to PD’s blank spots and limitations by narrowing my barnyard. Smalling out my domain makes things feel less bleak. “Clean the hen house. Sanitize the trough. Pull the weeds and plant a few choice berry bushes.” Keep things small not lofty—be simple not sophisticated.
In this terrain, actual triumph is an ultimate grilled cheese sandwich or a newly orderly vitamin shelf. There are closets to clean and much joy to spark.
Every so often and surprisingly, I look past my virtual fences to the open plain. I try but cannot see a fresh horizon where I am healthy and confident and unabashedly hopeful.
The Moment
Parkinson’s is not always the only challenge.
On the day of my oncologiy appointment interpreting a CT scan tracking the growth pace of newly-diagnosed and incurable malignant mesothelioma in my left lung, I scheduled that appointment for 9 am, followed by an 11 am appointment with my dermatologist.
Cancer fear. It is a disease not limited to those who actually have the disease. Before diagnosis, apprehension about every lump was part of my daily menu. After diagnosis, I am urged to adopt the exact opposite approach. Now that you have cancer—don’ dwell on it—don’t think about if. It seems it is OK to jokingly worry about cancer—when you don’t have it. “Be more Zen” admonish my friends, who, like me, are all Jewish strivers of Eastern European origin. I am repeatedly advised not to worry about the future and live in the moment.
I try to explain that I was more Zen when death was just a concept—not a near horizon iceberg. And also, which moment to live in? The one where my internist called to say, “I’m truly sorry—the PET scan lit up.” Or the one where the psychiatrist asked, “Have they told you how long you have left?” How about the moment when a close friend—on learning about my situation—assured me she would miss me—really.
Negative diagnosis-related episodes populate my subconscious. I really do remind myself, “Gravitate to the things worth celebrating—incorporate the light.”
Which brings me to injectables—the injection by a trained dermatologist into flaccid facial planes of strategically placed plumpers and fillers. The treatment is painful, costly and temporary. Injectables remain effective from about six months to a year, when the life fades from them. Quel impermanence. Quel extravagance. Quel metaphor.
My oncologist told me last month to “take this time to travel—do things you love.” Well, I don’t really enjoy travel but I am enduringly vain. Getting injectables tops my chart as an act of cancer defiance. I can vow to live to purchase the next round! Notice also that a needle works in two directions: A needle can fill my face with beauty-enhancing fluids, or extract my blood for hospital lab work.
I will be stoic later this month at 9 am, when the oncologist reports what the CT scan has documented about my cancer status. That is because I will be inwardly focusing on 11 am, when the dermatologist will improve my appearance with transitory fillers.
I will be uplifted—in the moment.
__________
Ellen B. Pritsker is a Chicago-area writer and communications specialist. A Chicago native, she holds a BA from the University of Michigan and a Certificate from The Family Institute at Northwestern University. Single, she is the proud parent/grandparent of three sons and five grandchildren. She was diagnosed in the fall of 2019 with Parkinson’s Disease.