Not Too Bright

“What makes people resilient is the ability to find humor and irony in situations that would otherwise overpower you.”   Amy Tan

I awoke to a bright light shining on me. In the middle of it was a face. A familiar face. A trusted face. The face I had seen on the computer screen every two weeks for the last one and a half years. I remember when we first talked I told her, “I just need someone to call me on my BS. Make sure I’m not kidding myself.” I’d had little luck finding a therapist who would tell me what I did not want to hear but needed to hear. Even more difficult was finding a therapist who could break me down and build me up at the same time. That’s the therapist I wanted. That’s the therapist I found.

So there I was, telling her how I planned to go to an event with a group of old friends. That is “old” as in we have known each other a long time; not as in “of a certain age”(although, one could argue…). After 24 hours of deliberating I canceled my attendance at the last minute. Most of these friends, I told my therapist, have not seen me since I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

Many knew of my diagnosis through social media, but they had not seen it. “Seen what?” asked my therapist. “The tremors,” I replied. I went on to explain how I didn’t want them to see me tremor. What if we have a meal, and the food falls off my spoon as a lift to toward my mouth? What if they can’t read my writing if there is a reception guest list? I don’t want to distress them nor do I want to be the center of attention. I didn’t want them to feel sorry for me.

That’s when she woke me up from my slumber of self-pity with her bright and shiny wisdom, “You know, Steve, no one cares about you having Parkinson’s more than you do.“ The light beams coming through the computer made me want to adjust my screen’s brightness. It was exposing my narcissistic self. Like a laser, it cut through to the place where my embarrassment and shame of having Parkinson’s lived.

Upon a moment’s reflection, I knew she had just called me on my BS. The reality is that the only person who was worried about this was me. The one who experienced guilt was me. The one who was brought down was me. The person who missed out on visiting with his old friends was me. The only person who felt sorry for me was me! The irony was blinding. I promised to not let PD keep me from social opportunities with friends and family. “Good for you,” she said, and I think I saw her reach for the keyboard and turn down her screen’s brightness.