These are hard times. We all have reasons to hold ourselves back. Still, every morning we wake up to one more day, until the day we don’t. We have every freaking day. So we try to make some small part of our world a little better. We educate ourselves about nuanced issues. We talk, and our conversations sometimes lead to our heart and our best intentions. We become advocates for our self and for others. We stand as we are able.
An advocate publicly supports or suggests a new way forward.
Take a look at the house of my dear friends who live down the street. Their place is a freakingly humble example of advocacy. There’s a no-charge pay phone and a hand-washing station, and it’s not unusual to walk by any hour of the day and see someone using one or both. There are photos of Black men and one Black woman who died while in custody. There’s a rainbow peace flag.
Now take a look at the free food table. This perishable food is donated by Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods via Central City Concern. It serves people in our neighborhood who have lost their jobs and are running out of things.
People are encouraged to stop by the table or pass the information on to anyone who might need it.
Some days there’s fresh milk and bagels. Or potatoes. Heads of broccoli, snap peas.
Once I snagged a Snickerdoodle.
At the end of the day, if there’s a lot of perishable food left, there might be a barbecue and dinner is served.
If you want to know more about the people who live here, ask me. I feel protective of their privacy and, also, this is their hard work, not mine.
All this leads to a simple question. What can we — what can I — do to be a better advocate for our selves, our world and the things we believe in, despite what holds us back? Stand as you are able. It’s a new freaking day.
It’s been eight weeks since the earth flipped around.
I’m still here, trying to hold steady. For me, it’s a time when nothing feels easy. I search for rhythm in my days. I create lists that peter out after two or three items. I try to finish something, anything.
Each night, I decide to make it a bright day tomorrow.
I remember the things that have saved me before. Writing in my journal. Meditating. Exercise. Friends. Breathing.
Yesterday, the sun came out. The neighbors gathered for a Sunday afternoon socially distant check-in in our yard.
I poured a small glass of wine and went out the front door.
There it was: a heart made of rose petals. A bit of whimsy created as a token of affection by a neighbor.
A gift from the earth. Gratitude, affection, hope.
I’m still here, holding steady.
Tai chi. Yoga. Boxing. Book club. Work, of course. Even my friends that get together for coffee every Monday and Friday morning. We all meet on Zoom now.
Zoom wasn’t even active in my lexicon eight weeks ago. At first it seemed like amazing technology, because after the first week of quarantine, I was desperate to see a real person.
I really miss seeing real people!
I don’t like how the camera is always on. I don’t need to see my reflection. I’m tired of living in Screen Land.
The news says it might be safe soon to relax some of the social distancing rules that keep us from being with each other. I don’t believe it’s safe yet. But it sure would be nice.
“The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club.”
Clearly Chuck Palahniuk wasn’t talking about Parkinson’s Boxing. The first rule of Parkinson’s Boxing is you tell any one that it might help. Because Parkinson’s Boxing takes people challenged by a chronic illness and builds them into a fighter.
Exercise is literally the only tool we have to slow the progression of the disease. We’re fighting for our lives.
Recently three of us, Kat, Harry and I, were invited to work out at a Rock Steady class in Kauai. There we met some remarkable fighters. The class was similar to the one that Kat and I attend in Portland, Kimberly Berg’s Rebel Fit Club, which is dedicated to people with Parkinson’s and other movement disorders.
Our workout was similar: weights, speed bag, ropes. The view looking out at Kauai’s luscious green hills was magnificent. We were even invited to spar.
Here’s the whole group of fighters at the end. It was a pretty sweaty group.
That’s Kat, bending down behind Harry, Coach Ron next to Harry, and me in the blue. Behind my right shoulder is our new friend and boxing hero Lisa who we hope to see in Oregon this summer. Actually we’d be happy to see any of these kind people come visit us.
We’re brave. We’re mighty.
I caught my first glimpse of Oregon years ago on a February spring day. I was interviewing for my first job out of college and I heard the weather called “hiring weather.” This meant that fresh-eyed college kids like me would be easy to impress.
Was I! I was stunned by the sunny weather. And the blue skies. I could see snow-capped Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens on the horizon. I’d been warned that Oregon was mostly grey skies and rain, and that it would be a depressing, dreary place to live. Nobody had told me about this.
It was snowing when I left Colorado earlier that week. I was eager to take my next steps after school, very aware it meant moving away from home and taking on the work I had studied long to do. Even more than the sun, I was amazed by all the bulbs that were in bloom. Bright daffodils. Tulips. White and purple crocuses.
This morning, many years after I caught that first glimpse of Oregon, our yard is vibrant in yellow and purple with its annual show of February bulbs.
I believe this day is medicine, every bit as much as the Sinemet and Ropinerole that I take. I sit on the front steps and feel the sun on my face. As in-depth as science has studied dopamine, the only clear link I can find between dopamine and the sun is a theory that sunlight increases the number of dopamine receptors. This creates vitamin D which activates the genes that release dopamine. That’s good enough for me.
I think of the words of Thich Nhat Hanh: “You are a child of the sun, you come from the sun… and the earth is in you.”
Tomorrow is soon enough for the skies to be grey and rainy. Today I will read and sketch and make music and drink tea. Today is “hiring weather” and I want to hire whatever there is to hire. That includes several bright yellow bunches of daffodils out today, showcasing our yard.
I recently went on a weekend trip to the coast with a group of friends. We stopped at the Tillamook Cheese Factory to stretch our legs and let ourselves be tempted by the local ice cream.
We looked like everyone else there, except some of us have Parkinson’s. Some of our symptoms are obvious but for the most part they are unremarkable. None of us consider herself to be disabled, even if we have a progressive neurological disease.
We look healthy — and happy — right? We are!
Many people living with Parkinson’s are fully active in their lives, including work, families and outside activities. Still, we struggle to get through our days.
The term invisible disability is being used more commonly to refer to symptoms such as debilitating pain, fatigue, dizziness, cognitive dysfunctions, brain injuries, learning differences and mental health disorders, as well as hearing and vision impairments. Although they may be not obvious, they can limit daily activities.
When we are able to put a definition on invisible disabilities, it helps us understand the challenges people experience in their daily lives.
Our trip to the coast was lovely. The weather was pleasant. And enjoying the company of several friends from my Parkinson’s community was sweet.
Just like Tillamook ice cream.
After I waited in a long, long line to get into the Portland Community College gymnasium and found my seat, I looked around for the nearest exit. I heard other people doing the same.
People seemed keenly aware that we were on a college campus, that our bags had been searched and our presence scrutinized by several uniformed sheriff’s officers. Most of us also likely noticed that a number of children were present. All good reasons to be a little nervous.
I amused myself by trying to pick out the U.S. marshals in the crowd. Easy enough. How many Portlanders do you know who wear a short haircut, a dark suit, and have a springy cord coming out of one ear?
Justice Sotomayor’s visit was sponsored by the library and I saw several of my colleagues taking tickets and managing volunteers. I was glad that I was there as a private citizen, able to come and go as I please — or so I imagined. Later, I felt a little less like a private citizen as we were told to sit still in our seats, lest we make the U.S. marshals nervous.
A large crowd had shown up to show our appreciation for a Justice that we think of as one of our own. She represents the vision of inclusion and liberal politics that is Portland’s milieu. That’s why it feels so important, so necessary, to keep her safe on our watch.
It must be nerve-wracking for Justice Sotomayor’s staff to attend these events. They plan out every moment of her day, where she’ll walk, who she’ll meet. I saw her staff exchange the glasses of water on stage at least three times, and one man in a dark suit carefully wiped down her entire path.
Once she got on stage, it was clear that Justice Sotomayor kept her own counsel despite the whirlwind around her. She knew what was important to her — meeting and greeting the kids in the crowd — and she had enough power and courage to make it happen.
Justice Sotomayor told the crowd that she had made a deal with her security detail. If the entire crowd — some 700 of us — remained seated, she could walk out into the audience and hug kids. But if any one of us stood up suddenly, she would be whisked away and the event would be over. So we all sat — even those of us who wanted to stretch after sitting on gymnasium bleachers for an hour or two. We obeyed and sat and Justice Sotomayor walked out and hugged our kids, one at a time. She couldn’t have been more charming. And then it was over and the crowd was dismissed in rows of three. We headed for the nearest exit and breathed a sigh of relief. We hadn’t lost Sonia on our watch. We gave her back to the world. I hope they take good care of her.
Ooooh, I forget how cold and unforgiving boxing gloves can be. Someone — maybe Kimberly, our coach — or one of her many volunteers — will help us tighten the straps around each wrist.
But first, there’s some ferocious hugging and greeting to be done. You’d assume that the Rose City Knock-Out Ladies — all of us with our own unique diagnosis of Parkinson’s Disease — hadn’t seen each other for more than a day or two.
We laugh and sometimes cry and then we admire each other’s earrings and see if someone has new workout gear. There’s news to share, not always good. Then it’s time to head to the punching bags with the others.
Away from the boxing gym, I suffer small losses all day long. My foot drags. I forget a word, my fingers clench and keep me from typing any faster than a key at a time. I remind myself to stand up, don’t give in to stooping, swing my right arm when I walk. Every day, I fight to do the easiest things: shower, get dressed — don’t get me started on sports bras! — hurry for the bus, and try to balance gracefully if I don’t get a seat. Every day I work at not falling into the laps of strangers.
But in the boxing gym, I’m strong. With gloves on, I hit the bags with everything I have. Call it fighting, call it stress relief, call it major annoyance at this cold and unforgiving disease.
Afterwards, I sometimes need help getting my gloves off. They’re warm and damp inside. I’m dripping with sweat, my face a lovely red. And my heart pounds. I am strong and alive.
In her memoir, “Are You Somebody?” author Nuala O’Faolain describes her common experience of being recognized in public but not being easily identified or named. People guessed that she was famous but they couldn’t say who she was. She would be in a lounge bar or the grocery store, and be asked “Are you somebody?”
Aren’t we all somebody? Even as we grow comfortable with our skin and the landscape around us, we can find it hard to listen to our own inner voice. As we get older, the possibilities of being “somebody” narrow down into a more slender path. We realize, for example, there will be no athletic career for us, nor are we likely to go into politics. Or acting or a host of other things.
Still, that’s not the kind of “Are you somebody” question that we’re asking. We’re all out here in our own little vessels, these aging bodies, these failing brains. It’s all we’ll ever have. As O’Faolain wrote, we’re not anybody in terms of the world, but then, “who decides what a somebody is? How is a somebody made?” O’Faolain believed she’d never done anything remarkable; neither have most people. Yet, most people, feel remarkable.
Recently I was slightly remarkable, or, rather I was mentioned in the newspaper. In the course of my work as a research librarian, I helped an elderly couple reunite with a lost wedding band. (You can read about it in the article below.)
The article was picked up by a couple of other news agencies and it was also reprinted later in the week. By that time, my name had been edited out of the story. I was remarkable and then I wasn’t.
There is a yoga practice where you say your given name out loud three times, and wait in a meditative pose. And sometimes people hear their own desires, their own small voice responds. It reassures us that we all are somebody, we all matter. The psychoanalyst Carl Jung warns us, though, that it is easy to deceive ourselves. I think that when we are able to be sufficiently quiet and our thoughts are open, there is no deceit. That’s when our still, small voice — the “somebody” that we are — can speak.