WHO ARE YOU CALLING A SLACKER?

You know, there's something that always causes me to question whether I should be doing something different.  I ask myself whether I'm a slacker; whether I'm wallowing in self-pity and letting Parkinson's and bipolar diminish my motivation.  What am I talking about you ask.

 Well, it goes like this.  Pat Summit, the head basketball coach for the Lady Tennessee Vols recently was diagnosed with early onset dementia.  She's only 59 years old.  But Coach Summit isn't going to permit her diagnosis get in the way of basketball, coaching, and living life.  She made it clear she doesn't want anybody's pity.  By gosh, she's going go keep coaching for as long as she can.  The author of the article that describes her situation (I've included the link) said this:

           [H]ow brutal is it that a woman of such accomplishment, wisdom

           and impact might have her career cut short, robbing any number

          of players that would’ve enjoyed her guidance.

http://rivals.yahoo.com/ncaa/womens-basketball/news?slug=dw-dementia_diagnosis_wont_stop_summitt_082311

Well, now I feel pretty crappy about myself. I have Parkinson's dementia.  It impacts my memory, though not severely - yet.  It impacts my ability to call up words to express myself.  And I'm younger than than Ms. Summit.  I'm nowhere near as accomplished as Ms. Summit.  I don't have all of the awards she does.  No one is lamenting over the number of young people who will not benefit from my influence. Most importantly, however, I no longer practice law or even work full time and I've never declared that I intend to do so.

So, what does that say about me?  Am I a slacker?  Am I just trying to seek pity?  What do other people think about me?  If Ms. Summit can declare she won't be deterred by dementia, why am I letting my maladies affect what I do? Frankly, she's making me look bad.

On the other hand, there's Steve Kragthorpe, the former Offensive Coordinator for the Louisiana State University Tigers.  When he recently learned that he had Parkinson's, he immediately stepped down as OC and assumed responsibility for coaching the team's quarterbacks.  He says that he hopes that he has 8 to 12 years to coach QBs before he must step down from football altogether. 
http://footballschedule.me/lsu-oc-steve-kragthorpe-steps-down-after-parkinsons-diagnosis.php 

The team's head coach commented that he was happy to see Steve take a proactive approach to his disease.

Now, I don't know what is proactive about stepping down from his job as the Tiger's OC coach.  It might lessen his stress.  It might require less of Coach Kragthorpe cognitively to be a quarterback coach.  We really don't know why he stepped down.  I'm ashamed to admit, though, that I'm glad he did.  I can point to him as justification for what I'm doing - or not doing.

I don't have an answer.  I believe that everyone's situation is different (e.g., my bipolar plays into my Parkinson's situation).  I believe that not everyone has a  situation or job where they can stay no matter how far their Parkinson's progresses like Coach Summit.  What about a neurosurgeon who cannot control tremors?  Is he a slacker because he must stop performing the delicate surgeries he used to perform?  Is he to be judged unkindly because he elects not to do something else?  Personally, I don't fault him for not wanting to do something his hands can do if his heart isn't in it.  In addition, he might be considering his age and his financial situation.  I don't know and people out there who do and who don't have Parkinson's don't know either.

We also don't know what kind of support system Coach Summit has in place.  Is there someone to do everything for her other than coaching, so that she can maximize her sleep?  Does she have a chef who can provide a menu that includes all of the good brain foods, such as spinach, salmon, blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, and other dark fruits and vegetables, that she should be eating? Is there an "assistant" coach right beside her at all times, helping her make important decisions on the court when she cannot remember?  I don't know, so maybe I ought not to be so hard on her for making me look bad.

Here's what I do know: I'm being easier on them, particularly on Coach Kragthorpe, than I am on me.  Kragthorpe isn't a slacker.  He's doing what he thinks is right for him.  The fictitious surgeon is doing what he thinks is best for him - I can't do anything but make that assumption.

So, am I a slacker?  Well, I won't permit myself to say "no" until I've examined and decided that what I am doing is best for me.  I hope that I can cut myself some slack.  I'll let you know.


Gayle


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

SCHOOL'S OPEN - PART 2

I thought I would have to wait until September.  Teachers usually don't have a need to be away from their classes during the first couple of weeks of class.  But when that teacher is a mom with a college freshman, lucky for me, she needs a sub so she can move her daughter into her dorm.  Thus, I had my first subbing assignment of the year.  It was in high school history - 2 classes of history of the Middle Ages and 2 classes of American History.

It was every bit of fun that I thought it would be.  I knew almost all the kids from prior years.  A couple of them even remembered that I don't permit those who say "can I go," instead of "may I go" to the restroom to go anywhere until they rephrase their question.  And I learned that saying the word "toilet" can really bring down the house with laughter.

Interestingly, the night before, I didn't want to go.  I haven't wanted to go to a lot of places lately.  But I committed, so I had to go.

That morning, when I arrived at school, I headed straight to the coffee house across the street and visited with people I had not seen since May.  It made me smile.  Next, I went to my classroom for the day, found it was locked and then found one of the math teachers to lend me her key.  We chatted - she knows all of my kids - and, again, I smiled.  Then I went down to the teachers' lounge where one of the English teachers who I've known since our daughters were in kindergarten together (about 17 years ago) greeted me with a big smile and an even bigger hug.  I returned both.  It was good to see him.  Finally, I went upstairs to review my sub notes one more time and saw the history teacher whose room is right next door.  I got a big greeting from him.  He asked about my son.  His son and mine were high school friends.   I smiled for the fourth time and it wasn't even 8:00 yet.

I smiled throughout the day, as students discussed the categorization of shoes and as I victoriously started the movie in the VCR with minimal fumbling.  Several students reminded me of some trouble I had last year with starting a movie.  It took half of the class time.  We had a good laugh about it.

It was a great day.  I didn't have to try to lift my mood.  I just had to put myself in the right location and the environment and the people did it for me.

 

COMMOTION

I absolutely abhor commotion.  It stresses me out.  I feel a lump start to grow in the middle of my chest.  I feel nauseated.  I almost shut down.  Commotion is everywhere.  Two people talking at the same time is commotion.  Having to hear the radio or TV and someone talking at the same time is commotion.

You can imagine, then, what this week has been like for me.  We had the outside of the house painted.  The painter found some rotting wood, so he had to call in a carpenter.  Painting is fairly quiet, so I can deal with painting.  Carpentry, on the other hand, is not quiet.  It involves saws and hammers; saws and hammers make noise.  Noise is commotion.

But that's not all.  We also were laying a hardwood floor in two rooms. Scheduling of the contractors didn't go as planned.  The floor layers showed up early because their prior job was cancelled.  Floor layers use loud tools.  There are rubber mallets, another saw and, worst of all, a high pressure thingy that makes many many loud "shots" while pushing tongues into grooves.  So all of these people, their trucks, their lunch bags, their refuse and the conversations they were having among each of their respective crews was creating an unbearable level of commotion.

We all know that stress exacerbates tremors and other outwardly physical signs of Parkinson's.  You can imagine, then, that all of this commotion created an excessive amount of stress.  The hands started tremoring such that I couldn't hold anything still. The tears came easily and quietly streamed down my face.

So, what did I do?  I went outside and sat down.  There were drop clothes, but no painters.  There was a downed rain spout, but no carpenter who was supposed to be putting it back up.  I can't say the deck was calming.  The chairs were all over the place.  There were leaves everywhere and my planters were shoved together.  But there were no people and very little noise.

I managed to stop the tears and make the lump in my chest melt away.  I got my hands calmed down not by staring at this:



but rather by concentrating on this:
 

I didn't see the forest because I just concentrated on the "tree."

Peace,
G

SCHOOL'S OPEN

"Labor Day is a glorious holiday because your child will be going back to school the next day.  It would have been called Independence Day, but that name was already taken."  ~Bill Dodds

I hear that there are moms and dads out there who become giddy when school starts and they can send those kids back to school.  There is no doubt in my mind that chasing little children all around and keeping track of teenagers every evening is exhausting.  Secretly, moms and dads want their "me" time back.  For me, there's something comforting in the routine of the school year.  It's predictable.  This year, my third child is graduating from high school.  I know how the year should play out.  Hopefully, the school won't move my cheese and do something different.

Let me tell you why I am just beside-myself-excited about the start of school.  For the past couple of years, I have worked as a substitute teacher in the middle and high schools where my kids attend(ed) school.  It's not really work, though.  It is just nothing but fun!  I absolutely love it.  I love interacting with the students.  In the high school, I'm reputed for rewarding good behavior with donuts or homemade chocolate chip cookies.  More than one student has been heard to say, "That was the best cookie I ever put in my mouth."  I'm known for my chocolate chip cookies at school like I was at the law firm!  There is no down side.

I get a charge when I walk in the building in the morning and students who learn that I'm subbing for one of their teachers shout out with a teenager "YES!"  (Sure, I know they may be cheering because their teacher isn't there, but I prefer to think that's not the case.)  I believe they know that I'm the sub that doesn't "yell" at them.  It's an opportunity to practice my "no yelling" philosophy. True, I don't have to teach or grade papers or prepare lesson plans.  I'm not a "real" teacher.  I just need to show up on time and maintain order.  I do enforce good grammar.  They're learning not to ask me if they "can" go to the bathroom.  I tell them I'm not familiar with their toileting habits.  I absolutely love it.

Bob, (my therapist), says that he has never seen my face more animated than when I talk about subbing.  It energizes me. I really don't know why.  It really doesn't matter why.  I have fun. I'm completely jazzed when I show up in the morning and have Phil tell me he's glad I'm here because I'm his favorite sub.

You can see what subbing does for me - it enables me to move my focus from Parkinson's to something that is outright fun.  It's not something for which I need to pack or plan.  All I have to do is make sure I have something to wear to school the next day when I go to bed.  When I'm called to sub, I can say "yes" or "no."  It's low hassle. Oh, and, I get paid for doing it!

My wish for people who carry the weight of Parkinson's is that they can find their "thing" that will charge them  - that will make them smile.  If it involves people with lots of energy - all the better.  I wish for them that they find something that makes them laugh, that makes them animated, that takes them away, even for just a while, from their Parkinson's.  It feels good.

MY THERAPIST THINKS I'M TOO JUDGMENTAL, BUT THAT'S OK BECAUSE HE'S AN IDIOT.

STOP!  Drop what you're doing right now.  Oh, wait.  Right now, you're reading this.  Well, OK.  Watch what is at the other end of this link.  Then get right back to me.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGoXMgEkV8MT. 
  
Everyone should have a therapist.  The commercial is great.  It's one of my favorites.  But it's not therapy.   I've been seeing my therapist, Bob, for just over 5 years now and he's never thrown anything at me, even though I'm sure there was a time or two he wanted to.  (His name is not really Bob.  I've named him Bob in honor of Bob Newhart.)  He knows me better than anyone else - probably better than I know myself. My psychiatrist once described my relationship with Bob as one of the most intimate relationships I'll ever have. He's right, except the intimacy goes only one way.  Over time, I've learned some generic things about Bob (he lives and breathes to fly fish for trout in the Smoky Mountains); but, he is careful to limit that knowledge.  If he becomes too much of a "person" to me, psychology says my willingness to be candid with him is compromised and treatment isn't what it can be.  

You have no idea how smart Bob is.  It's amazing.  He is a walking bookcase of the latest information on whatever study it is that would apply to my situation.  He always is able to cite the experiences of some other person and compare how the two of us handled or are handling those experiences.  He also remembers everything about me.  At my last visit, he reminded me about something I discussed with him when I first met him in June 2006.  Amazingly, he doesn't take any notes while we talk.  Bob doesn't know what we're going to talk about when I walk in the door, but he adapts to what ever it is.  For him, it's like a pop quiz.  He usually gets an A.  I say "usually" because there have been times I've left his office really angry at him.  Even if he was right on whatever he said to make me angry (which he was), I need to save face and give him an A- for those times.

Bob is someone to whom I can speak freely about anything.  There are times when I have been so tied up with something, I felt like I was going to explode.  I obsessed about it.  I permitted it to get much bigger than what it really was.  But it was something I didn't want to tell anyone.  I could tell Bob.  I can say anything - anything I feel I need to say.  And I can say it out loud.  Sometimes saying it out loud makes what ever it is that is eating at me seem smaller - more manageable.  Bob is able to help me shrink whatever it is down to a manageable size.

The thing that makes talking to Bob easy is he does not judge.  No matter what I tell him, he remains steady. There's never a look on his face that says, "You did what?", even when the "what" is really stupid.  I don't have to justify what I feel.  I'm allowed to have my feelings.  It's OK to cry.  I do not have to be on guard.  Bob's office is the only place I know where it is completely safe to be vulnerable.

Bob's commitment to confidentiality is immeasurable.  I've seen him in public and he would not speak to me and risk someone asking me about his identity.  I don't care what you say.  When you tell your best friend a significant secret, it will end up out on the street - being Tweeted and texted from here to there.  Not so with Bob.  What I say in his office stays in his office.  I've sent 2 clients to Bob.  Each one told him that I sent her.  He wouldn't even acknowledge that he knew me.  I have no doubt about confidentiality.  I trust him implicitly.

I haven't showered Bob with sufficient flowery praise for you to witness just how much I admire him, how well he has worked with me and how beneficial therapy has been for me.  You see, he and my psychiatrist saved my life.  My psychiatrist was (and still is) essential to my care; he balanced medicines, talked to me and talked to Bob and I don't want to diminish, in any way, the care he gives me. He's one of the best doctors I see (and I see a lot).  But by design, Bob saw (and sees) me more frequently and for longer periods of time. I have no doubt that I would have harmed myself if Bob had not been there while I journeyed through a very dark, very long depression.  He watched closely to make sure I remained north of that dangerous line.  He helped me find a reason to stay alive and made sure that I repeated it every time we met.  He was not sugary compassionate.  That is not his job. He knew that I had to want to refrain from hurting myself for me - not for him or anyone else.  He talked in a way that led me to realize that in my head.  I remember being so confused during that time, but Bob methodically helped me to put as much in order as I could.  It all was quite an effort on this part.

A month ago or so, Bob started saying things that led me to believe that he thought his work with me was done, that I really didn't have a purpose for therapy anymore.  So, I made a list of reasons to continue and reasons to discontinue therapy and took it to my next meeting with Bob.  (Bob encourages journals.)

One of my reasons to continue was to have Bob help me cope with Parkinson's.  We've already discussed the potential for dementia.  As I progress through more memory loss, or more tremors, less balance and immobilizing uncertainty, I'm going to need him to talk me through it.  There is no one else who will listen like he does and who will acknowledge whatever it is that I'm feeling. No one. 

I know many people have depression as a part of their Parkinson's and many of them already see a therapist; but, people afflicted with Parkinson's don't have to be depressed to see a therapist.  Therapy doesn't have to be an every-other-week thing.  It can be ad hoc.  You can call only when you have something specific to discuss - when you need to have someone help you examine your thinking about Parkinson's or just to let you say out loud whatever might be bothering you.  You can go when your deepest-rooted fear rears up and there is no one you feel comfortable telling.  A therapist won't tell you he or she knows how you feel or tell you he or she is sorry.  A therapist will talk you through it.

I'm telling you, I'm a believer in therapy.  As you've figured out, my therapist hung the moon.  Don't believe me?  Try it.  No one will throw a tissue box at you.

Gayle M.

Post Script:  A friend of mine saw a magnet perfect for me.  The minute I saw it, I knew I needed to show it to Bob. I knew that when I gave it to him to examine, he would put on his reading glasses, bend over in his chair, put his elbows on his knees, start to read the magnet,  break out into a smile and at just the right time, I knew he would start to laugh - a true laugh - not a polite laugh.  Bob loved it.  I knew he would.  Bob doesn't take himself too seriously.  What's not to love about a good therapist joke? I hope you liked it, too.

CHOCOLATE v. PARKINSON'S

Did I make myself clear in my last  post?  This whole language communication thing just bugs me every which way but loose.  It really makes me angry. I resent that I'm losing my ability to articulate. 

Some people patronize me by saying something like "we're all losing our minds."  Not like me, you're not, Buddy.  I made a living putting words together - on paper and verbally - to write a retirement plan or to negotiate a deal or to politely tell the exempt organizations division of the IRS that they could go to hell because they were wrong (yet again).  In fact, I once had an IRS reviewer whose region covered Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee, tell me that I was the second most difficult lawyer with whom he had ever dealt.  Now THAT is something I like to hear - that is zealous representation.  And I achieved that status with my words  - with my vocabulary and my ability to express to that reviewer just exactly why my client was in compliance with whatever qualification issue he wanted to dredge up.  And I could recite the applicable provisions of the law.  (BTW, I doubt if he used correct grammar.  He probably said "that he ever dealt with."  There's a grammatical error that gets in my shorts.)

It's like some athlete who has been told he'll never ski, or run, or play football again.  But here's the difference:  I'm not interested in being some made-for-TV movie hero where everyone cries at the end of the movie because the athlete has found a way to stay in his vocation sporting a full body cast.  I want to be a person who is able to get through her half of a 6-piece, deep dish pizza using a minimal number of incorrect words.  Zero would be preferable.

So, here's what I am: PISSED OFF.  I debated whether to use those "cuss words."  I try not to use them.  But - and this is not a surprise - I can't think of any other words that adequately express how I feel about what is happening to me.  I'm PISSED OFF about what is happening to me. When something bad happens, my therapist has been known to ask me, "Did anyone die?"  Now?  No, but you know what?  I don't care.

So are you wondering what happened to "I'm-going-to-play-brain-games" Gayle?  Well, this morning I was trying to explain something to someone and I couldn't think of the word "tense."  It was right there, bouncing around in my skull.  I could see it.  I could feel it in my shoulders. But, I couldn't catch it. I couldn't pull it in.  So I said "stressed," but that just doesn't have the same meaning.  

Also this someone is a physical therapist.  Every time she asked me to do something, like lay down on my back, I had to repeat it and she had to repeat it, and then I had to think about before I really knew what she wanted me to do.  And today, well, I'm just not in the mood to take one on the chin.
So, are you wondering why this blog is labeled "Chocolate v. Parkinson's?"  Well, when I started writing this, I was going to write about foods that are believed to fight dementia.  Then, I couldn't think of a word.  So, I became frustrated and started down a different theme.  One of the foods I was going to mention was chocolate - dark chocolate - at least 70% cocoa.  I'll talk about the others later.  Right now, I'm going to go eat a piece of chocolate and calm myself.


Gayle M.