“But his father said to his servants, “Hurry!” Bring him the best robe and clothe him. He will put rings on his fingers and sandals on his feet. Bring them in and kill them. Let’s celebrate with a feast. Because this son of mine was dead and is alive again. He was missing, but he was found. ‘ So they began to celebrate. ”—Luke 15:22-24
Parkinson’s disease…to use the technical term…is the worst.
When I’m “off” (when the meds aren’t working as well), this disease rattles my world. I type with one hand, use a cane, and move like I’m in molasses. My view of myself as a mass of motherhood crumbles in the face of dopamine abandonment. My daughter ties my shoelaces. Her son pulls me from a sitting position to a standing position.
Like the brothers in the fable who must accept the return of their profligate sibling, I also accept the prodigal sons of Cell, their childish betrayal of Cell and their reckless disregard for their place in the neurological family. You have to learn to accept it.
I am a giving tree, forced to receive, helplessly humble, and too insecure to develop fine motor skills. “Could you please get me two pills from the bottle?”
How do I forgive the suicidal dopaminergic cells, the errant child cells, that recklessly ignore their rightful role in my brain and disrespect my future?
Plan. God laughs. If you had told me that I would be diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease when I turned 50, I would have laughed at the absurdity of the concept. But like many others, I too, for reasons I hope science will uncover, something in my body goes back to nest and squanders many of those precious brain cells before symptoms appear. That’s what I did.
Like the brothers in the fable who must accept the return of their profligate sibling, I also accept the prodigal sons of Cell, their childish betrayal of Cell and their reckless disregard for their place in the neurological family. You have to learn to accept it. It doesn’t matter why they gave up their position within the substantia nigra.
It is what it is – and even if, like my brother, I pretend to forgive, until I find the grace to make it real, like my father, the result is who I am now. .
Transitioning from siblings to fathers is a difficult process, one that requires emotional labor, and Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ model of grief, or denial, until we arrive at the Kubler-Ross idea. , a process similar to anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It’s called acceptance and I call it forgiveness. What you mean when you say, “It is as it is, and I am as I am.” that’s ok.
that’s ok.
Oh, dear Lord, help me find the peace to accept my brain’s many imperfections while maintaining the spirit to keep fighting like hell. And if you’re feeling particularly generous, I don’t think anyone would object to throwing in some medical advances.
