Sunday, September 27, 2015

I Figure Another Ten Years

Maybe five more years, where I can still get around, then sets in more of the Parkinson's. After ten I'll be kicking, but not much more. Which makes me wanna do something tremendous, a swan song farewell. A cool step over the line. You know... something special.

Thus the rub. Fate's snub of my aspirations for the grandiose.

Mostly my time is wasted in maintenance. Doctor visits, gimping about, medication dosed out... a string of kind indignations, as the world of well-meaning good-intentions swallow me in a complacency. Endlessly shifting position, easing discomfort... Swirling in a world of friendly smiles, from well trained caregivers.

PD propaganda propagates a perpetual state of hope. Hope of a cure and hope as the cure. It is a tedious drone of optimism for people who live on the darker side of Parkinson. For those of us, who linger in our beds, in a wounded drool of depression. We get the message, acknowledge appreciation, yet we do not digest these happy pills of optimism. We know well how we feel.

I am teaching a swan to sing, as slippery time slimes past, in a maddening rush to an ugly ending. A tune of holy righteousness must come, from a quivering beak of indecision. I must find my voice even while it fades into an inevitable silence.

Hope is a rope to skip when young. Hope for we old is to build a bridge, beyond our predictions of sad demise into a living hilarity of on-going orgasm... to say 'Goodbye' as a triumphant 'Sayonara'. A kimono-clad hero waltzing off into the sunset.

To manifest a masterful final dance with my femme fatale, the Goddess of Happy Endings, is quest worthy of death. Wish me good riddance and my own happy forever-after ending. Help me to say goodbye wisely... artfully, with a hint of mint.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

The Neurological Lifestyle; The subtle implications of living with Neurological disorders
Intellectually, we all agree, there is an integral intimacy between body and mind. Yet facing this interplay, between the psychological and the physiological, is an annoying prescribed sensibility I'd sooner not have. Every damn chore, from putting on my pants to using the stairs, is a demanding challenge.. A task of survival.

Generally I look normal. I do curve forward, needing to remind myself to stand tall. I do shuffle not step, so need to map out my footpath long in advance. My left hand shakes and fails to grip, needing foresight with each simple task life throws at me.

I need to remember I am no longer the same. I need to recognise what I am doing and relearning how I need to do it. A lifetime of coordination training has to be remapped and practiced, with a child's beginner-mind simplicity.

But I am not a child, shielded by a loving mother monitoring my missteps. I'm an old man, with manly responsibilities and a vulnerable self image. I have lost spontaneity, no longer can I dive in the water in a ballsy dramatic gesture of romantic silliness. Instead I consider how the heck I could get out of the water once in. I am not sure if I can even still swim.

I can no longer say to a lover in an act of fury 'Let me out here...' because I'd be stuck far from the security of my room. I'd be in a world I once wandered freely, but now dread as an exhausting pain riddled incline... Home has become my hiding place.

I am forced to remain fully conscious in a world where body meets a sharp edged normalcy, a small world of endless discomforts, a call to be brave, steadfast, and happy, even when I am not. I am surrounded by heroes of labor, a hard working nation. I ask myself if I can persevere, as my body seeks the support of a chair and my mind hungers for sedation and distraction.

The only exit from brain disease is second guessing experience, a kind of metaphysical mix of hope, faith, and charity of expectations. To switch from the youthful quest for the perfection of existence, to the avoidance of discomfort and the eventuality of a slow degrading death.

Medical science yet on the horizon becomes my image of heaven. I lean on my cane, glaring at the sunset, hoping news will come of cure, a friendly face in a white coat, saying 'Try this pill.' Then I snap out of the dream and resume my existential test... my wilful war-dance of mind and body. I swallow the reality pill of living with a neurological disease called Parkinson's.