"ADVERSITY HAPPENS"

    My thoughts after reading the New Yorker's article on Parkinson's Disease, April 28, 2014,  "Have You lost Your Mind?" ---

Apparently, many people who have PD are ashamed and/or embarrassed about the diagnosis.   Do they see it as a personal failure?   Or, maybe a defect?

My personal attitude is that 

1) it's not a personal failure - because, as far as I know, I had nothing to do with acquiring it,

2) and yes, it's a defect.  So What?  Does that make me "bad" or "undesirable"?     No way!

I've had a lot of personal success over the past 60 years, creating a strong self-image  (good news) - but, also strong enough to foster an un-healthy level of pride and independence (bad news -  too much of anything can become a negative, IMHO.)

Actually, I want people to know that I have PD.  I want people to know 'why' I look and respond the way I do.  Most of the time I'm smiling inside - something  desperately lacking in my demeanor.  (I've tried to notify my face, but unfortunately it doesn't respond to my mental commands  very well.) 

Because I had DBS surgery, My Parkinson's tremor is gone -- however, my speech has been extremely impacted.  I recently made a calling card to help break the ice with strangers:  

Today, at age 63, Parkinson's is not a 'career buster' for me, but rather a journey to a new place - mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually. 

Fortunately, my diagnosis came at a time in my life when my vocation was morphing into a technological rat race.  I had been pleased with my accomplishments by age 55, but not necessarily excited about chasing the learning curve of the tech/video future.    (Maybe that apathy was a non-motor symptom of PD -- undetected at the time)   I was ready for a change - but not necessarily Parkinson's

Now, mind you, I'm not a stranger to change - having lived in numerous locations from:

               Philadelphia to Anchorage,   New York City to Detroit,

               North Hollywood to Modesto,  Sacramento and Yuba City, CA.  

Currently residing in North San Diego County, in retirement, I look back at the many hats I've worn since the 1960's: 

o   professional musician, magician/entertainer;  laborer/carpenter on the Alaska Pipeline;

o   construction superintendant;  racquetball and fitness club manager/owner; 

o   roller skating rink owner/operator;  Independent Business Owner with Amway Global; 

o   professional videographer  and audiovisual contractor,  producer/director. 

To be certain, I've had a very full life and my bucket list is small.  I'm sure there will be some surprises yet to come, but I have learned that  adversity happens.  How we respond to adversity determines our well-being in this life...and potentially, it determines our status in the next life to come. 

I don't like Parkinson's Disease.   It has grossly altered the dynamics of our lives - Beckie, our children and grandkids have been negatively impacted.  It has forced us into a place of pain and emotional trauma - a place, in some small way reminiscent of the trouble encountered by the ancient patriarch, JOB...a place of psychological and philosophical drama...a place,  however, where I am learning about faith and hope.  A place  where I'm connecting with my Creator -

A place where the 'glass is half full' --- always.

THIS BUD'S FOR BILL

In my previous post, I mentioned a “G-Tube” (Gastric feeding tube) and I want to comment on that for a moment.

The lady at the restaurant told me about her neighbor who had reached a point  in his Parkinsons journey where he couldn't swallow ….. so he had a G-Tube surgically placed for nourishment.

I mentioned to Beckie, (my wife) that if I ever reach that point, I DO NOT want to have a G-tube; I’d like you to understand why  I feel that way.  It all comes down to Palliative Sedation.

Ten years ago, in 2003, I was sitting with Bill (my best  friend), his immediate family, Beckie and a lady from the local Hospice organization.  We were in his living room listening to the Hospice representative carefully explain about palliative sedation.

Bill was seated in his wheelchair beside me.  He’d had a G-tube inserted months before, through the skin, directly into his stomach.   He had not been able to speak for quite some time, and the decision to place the G-Tube was made because he had such difficulty swallowing.  Bill was near the end of a 6 year battle with ALS - a terminal illness also known as Lou Gehrig's Disease - and we were discussing hospice care.

At that point in time, I had not been diagnosed with Parkinson's -  didn’t have a clue what was ahead for me.  I thought I was healthy and just wanted to be there for Bill.  I remember telling people that he was Moses and  I was his Aaron - speaking  for him as needed.  We had reached the point where, most often by his body language and his eyes, I could tell what he was thinking  and I knew he was very anxious about this particular gathering.

The lady from Hospice chose her words carefully, as each of us tried to grasp the meaning of what she was saying.  "When we reach the point where Bill is very close to dying, and we know it's only a matter of days or hours," she continued, "and there is nothing else we can do for him, the least we can do is make him comfortable and not feel any pain.  Once we put that in motion, however, it's final.  He will be sedated and in a state of euphoria until he crosses over."  I realized that basically they would put him into an induced sleep - feeling good - until his nourishment was depleted, which typically would only be a matter of days.  He would not know anything after that fist injection.

There was a fly in the ointment, though.  Bill had a G-tube...and according to Hospice protocol,  Hospice personnel can only be involved when all other avenues have been exhausted.  As such, a feeding tube disqualifies the patient because it constitutes life support -  possibly extending his life for a very long time.  The only way Hospice could step in would be for Bill to get rid of the G-tube.  Bill wasn’t ready - at that moment - to go there, so it was a moot issue.

All of that background, hopefully, explains why I told Beckie that I didn't want a feeding tube; I just want to go when my time is up.

I realize that the issue is not a simple one.  We could probably effectively argue both sides all night long...but that's my experience in a nutshell.

Oh yeah, on a lighter note, Bill and I would occasionally each have a beer together before he had the tube inserted.  One afternoon, while visiting with him, G-tube intact, he indicated he wanted a Budweiser.  I looked him in the eye and asked, " In there?"  He nodded, with a big smile on his face.     So……… I grabbed a 16-oz. can of that brown Kool-Aid, popped the top, put a funnel on the tube, and we took turns - a sip for me, a drip into the funnel for Bill...sip for me, drip for Bill...each time the beer hit the funnel I quipped,  "THIS BUD'S FOR YOU!

"And that," as Paul Harvey used to say at the end of every broadcast, "is the rest of the story."

"Good Day!"

A Battery-Operated Brain

On January 9th I had out-patient surgery at Stanford to switch out my impulse generator.  The battery was running out of energy and needed to be replaced.    A week later, here at home, I was changing the dressing on my chest incision

My grandson asked, "Grandpa, what's THAT?" I replied, "I had a little operation."  Leo exclaimed, with a look of horror on his face, "The doctor cut you?  WHY?  (Leo is 5 years old).

My response was limited by my inability to speak in long sentences,  "I have a battery powered brain."   He quipped, "Grandpa, you're a robot!"  and proceeded to run around the house yelling,  "Mommy, mommy, did you know that Grandpa is a robot?  He has batteries!"

Life is good.