Tag Archive: Parkinson’s


Almost everything in Buddhism boils down to fear. Suffering is caused by fear, and either panic or freezing stops us from speaking up against injustice and often causes people to leave the path of goodness (i.e., the universal truth). When we get too deep, fear smacks us across the face and says, “This is no longer good.”

In meeting my case manager for the first time since March, I admitted to a host of fears: mainly losing my compass (i.e., the fear of the unknown); that I hadn’t processed my Parkinson’s Diagnosis; the fear of being unable to work; and, (after seeing many COVID-19 patients) the fear of dying a long and painful death (as opposed to quick and easy).

The compass throughout this ordeal was Ms. K. I have been successfully able to communicate clearly and thoughtfully since early 2019. As advancing pain presses, I fall asleep during meditation and fail to seize the opportunity for reflection of world’s events. (Ok. Maybe it’s about my circumstances.) 

“I know she’s still there,” I told my case manager. “. . . but I can’t communicate as clearly as I could before. I want her to know that I miss her and our conversations. However, it seems I’ve misplaced the phone number.”

In M*A*S*Hs’ “Pressure Points” episode, Sidney Freedman claims he’s conducting fact-finding medical research on stress. After making the rounds, Freedman meets Col. Potter. 

Truthfully, Potter called Sidney. Potter shares his feelings that his surgical skills are “. . . a lot less perfect than I can accept.” He’s worried but insists nothing’s wrong and wished to vent. Near the episode’s end, Potter tells Freedman he’s anxious about losing his touch (as a surgeon), and the idea of performing surgery fills him with terror. 

I’ve joked to colleagues and friends how surprised I am that my employee badge still works.

“Hey. How was your weekend?”

“Great,” I noted.

“Anything new or exciting?”

“Well, my badge worked.”

As M*A*S*H’s “Pressure Points” episode concludes, Sidney reminds Potter that someday he will get too old to be a surgeon. At this moment, the fear of failing has taken precedence. Whether or not that affects him is purely under Potter’s control.

My world is not as nuanced as a surgical room, for it is abundantly clear people are unobservant and aren’t paying that much attention. I come and go, and any notation of a trembling hand can quickly be dismissed to a remote COVID shift work or lack of sleep. When my work starts going downhill, I’ll have to recognize that the time has come to discuss the issue. I know that as time goes on, it’s going to get tougher to do the job. However, fear cannot be the driver of that moment.

As noted, there are other issues besides work that require my attention. However, it’s essential to remember Buddhism 101: fear must never be the driver of anything.

~ Fear does not prevent death. It prevents life. ~

Buddhist Teaching

For most, dying is slow. It’s about the minutia, the ever so quiet, stealthy diminishing ability to perform the ordinary.

Sherri Woodbridge phrased it as a silent thief, slowly robbing one of who they were and been. Through it all, those of us experiencing such dilemmas try to maintain a sense of normalcy. For instance, my left-hand refuses to stop shaking. The shaking doesn’t prevent me from doing anything, just makes everything harder. I can still button my shirt, but not as quickly as a week ago. I can still make a salad some days. I can still sew a button, only if another threads the needle.

It’s all part of change. Everything is impermanent. Of course, we all change. True to form, people change–healthy or otherwise. We fall in love; fall out of love; become addicted, become free. Some choose wisely. Others choose unwisely.

In the song ‘Turn! Turn! Turn!‘ The Byrds highlighted the never-ending cycle.

To everything (turn, turn, turn)

There is a season (turn, turn, turn)

And a time to every purpose, under heaven.

Pete Seeger wrote Turn! Turn! Turn! from Ecclesiastes. Released at the height of the Vietnam war, the song’s plea is for peace and tolerance. The Vietnam war had its season and we are reminded that time, pain, and suffering has a season. Every one of us experiences this never-ending cycle.

The Buddhist compass within me points to impermanence. We arise, change, and disappear. My hand worked fairly great a year ago. Today, not so much. The impermanence of a non-functioning hand is nothing new. Instead of loss, I want to profoundly remember the beauty of what it means to exist. Impermanence is the path, the vehicle, to that appreciation. Over time, in my own soul, nature presents itself and I was able to unlock a deeper meaning of our current challenges.

The loss of hand function would not change who I am in the eyes of another. The frustration rests within in my soul, for my fear is that in my life, my career, may be dependent upon how valuable I am to others. I presume God will let me off the hook of this endless chore of self-improvement, of being that one person recognized by world aa an authority on whatever. I was never an authority. Never will.

Impermanence will allow me to unlock God’s message of humanity. However, that doesn’t mean I won’t miss the ability to zip my pants. Ha. It means I will accept life’s ever-changing cycle, even my own.

No one has an incurable disease until someone tells you they have it. You may have symptoms for weeks, months, or years, but until a doctor sits down with you, looks squarely in the eyes, and says it, you just don’t know about it. Of course all your symptoms could be something else. They could be nothing. Symptoms could be major, could be minor, laughable, painful; all of the above or none of the above.

As mentioned before, I went to the neurologist earlier this year expecting to be expected to be laughed out of the office, similar to years before. However, in a twist of fate, the doctor looked me squarely in the eyes and said, “You have Parkinson’s.”

I never fully processed my initial meeting, never got the chance. No sooner had I received my prognosis, COVID arrived and all hell broke loose – twelve hour a day shifts, bad food, and political leaders refusing to provide any semblance of what they were hired to do, like leadership for one.

There’s always hope that the last neurologist made a mistake and my current neurologist would say. “our bad. Sorry. you are just fine. Go forth and propagate.”  In reality, how many of us really have such luck, as we all die from something. Yet somewhere inside me, there was a little speck of hope that somehow, all this, the Parkinson’s, the tumor, and poor prognosis would be explained away by a bad burrito eaten several years prior. 

No such luck. Within minutes of my telehealth appointment, my neurologist confirmed my plight. 

We had your scans and physical assessment reviewed by another neurologist. And that neurologist confirmed your diagnosis. You have Parkinson’s.”

There was no mention of being years late. There was no, “Sorry dude for being tardy.” None of that. After usual conversation of current symptoms, medicine schedule, and symptom management, we ended on prognosis.

“Basically, we think you will get anywhere from 1 to 3 good years. This will be our ‘golden period.’” 

“Golden Period?’” I thought. Since this has been raging undiagnosed for years, how much of my ‘golden period’ was swallowed by bad burritos? Ah. Maybe I should be grateful. I have more  time remaining than others. Many people experienced diseases which have taken them quickly and way too soon.

I used to have no identifiable issues. And, all the symptoms I do have, l used to be able to successfully mask. That’s no longer the case. Tremors, stiff muscles, and dropping things are common. Nightly hours of insomnia are taxing and l am unsure just how long I can physically work. Lastly, Lord only knows if my tumor has grown or not, for a surgical, post-op follow-up was washed away during COVID’s tsunami.

The ‘golden year(s)?’ What the hell is that? Last March, I was told I would have a couple of good years left. My neurologist is saying if the tumor, or remnants thereof, doesn’t wipe me out by two years, maybe I will get an additional year or two … or … maybe not.

Sigh. Experiences from just a year ago seem so far away. No matter. I remain exhausted and wish for nothing more than one pain-free day.

In the Elizabeth Kubler-Ross five stages of death, Depression is fourth. In this stage, one is likely to feel like withdrawing from life, feel numb, live in a fog, and not want to get out of bed. That wasn’t me. As subtle as it was, my stage was able to poke hole my otherwise stable façade.

To the normal reader, one may look at the event and say, “Why the fuss?” However, to all-knowing inner soul, it was “Reality bites.” At 4:38 PM, standing over a cutting board with knife in hand, ready to chop a white onion, my hand shook so bad I nearly couldn’t perform the task.  I looked like a construction worker using a jack hammer to cut vegetables.

Stage four started a few days ago with internal tremors in the legs and bradykinesia, a slowness of movement or impaired ability to move as commanded (like chopping vegetables. Frustrating, because I’ve spent a lot time making everything appear “normal.” Yet, I placed my knife on the kitchen counter, sat and in a chair and realized that I don’t know what normal is.

I had only a few weeks post-diagnosis before the Coronavirus struck hard and either forced everyone to place life on hold or work like crazy. Being in the later, I’ve kind of buried the deepest feelings. It was the first time I experienced any anxiety. In the several hours thereafter, I am beginning to understand something larger, bigger, and more determined is about to happen to me.

What if the façade fails and I must out myself? There are other things that take precedence over me. Certainly, my father’s stroke and potential death is significant. My mother’s care is critical, not to mention the subsequent estate settlement. Personally, I’ve had a tumor, multiple sclerosis, osteoarthritis, and now Parkinson’s.

As I sat looking out the window, I realized how tired I am. Tired of being sick. Tired of being in pain. Just plain tired. I suppose the fact that one’s body is trying to either make you miserable or kill you will, in fact, make one really depressed. I haven’t thought about mortality in any sense. I mean I have thought about it, maybe I haven’t processed it. Then again, we’ve all gone through some tough things–many a lot worse than I.

Outside of this moment in my life, I’ve been lucky. I’ve traveled well, seen places most will never see, had many a great love, and experienced God first hand. From a Buddhist perspective, what more could I ask? Sure, my hands and legs are beginning to fail, but I can write. And write I will.

As death approaches, Buddhists are taught to think about their holy writings. Focusing upon the Buddha’s teachings is supposed to bring good luck to a new existence. I will not focus upon superficial images of happiness, material and sensual pleasures, or technological innovation. At this point of my life, I am focusing upon whatever love available. I believe only true love will transcend death.

Thus, for a person who has awareness of death, every moment becomes a lesson in death and a lesson of love. Every moment should be viewed as being infinitely precious, and we should make the utmost effort to use our time to the best advantage.

Upon waking, I marvel at how my back feels, how natural the rhythm of the first few hours are, and how naively I think I could do it forever. Such feelings last an hour, maybe two. After that, I quickly relearn the cumulative effects from an early February tumor removal and Parkinson’s diagnosis. 

In the cool of the pre-sunrise morning, when I’ve had a good night’s sleep, all seems well. As the day wears on, weariness smolders the day, and that beautiful early morning feeling evaporates. Life becomes weightier, and every step begins to take its toll. My neck and back hurt, I fiddle with chairs aiming for a stable fit, and comfortable position. Yet no matter how much I tinker, I remain uncomfortable for the day.

Most cancer follow-up appointments remain canceled. As the W.H.O. noted, many patients with cancer are struggling to receive treatment due to hospitals canceling or delaying surgeries and other procedures. This includes those patients who are otherwise healthy and have curable diseases that require the timely implementation of surgery, chemotherapy, or radiation. Contracting COVID while undergoing treatment is too high a risk as opposed to cancer slowly eating away your life, one day at a time.

I have the utmost respect for my medical team. When I’ve texted (usually about medication), they’ve responded and provided care. However, it seems strange to be standing in the cancer wing of the hospital, updating their applications, with full knowledge that I cannot gain access to very services that can verify my prognosis. No matter how much I understand Coronavirus’s impact, I feel caught in a Rod Sterling “Twilight Zone” episode.

Walking the hallways, working from home, or looking out to the lakefront, I notice how the world has stopped. Driving through the subdivisions, I note, “… even in this place where time stands still; it seems like everything is moving. Including me (Heinrich Harrer).”

The ‘new normal’ is strange: things once marking the days—commuting to work, meetings, projects, and having a drink with coworkers, vanished. Time appears flat, seamless, without structure.

Before COVID, I needed to believe each day would get better. I needed to feel my doctors knew my tumor would abate, and that if I gave everything to treatment, I would be delivered more life opportunities, something I fully don’t deserve. Such needs are gone. I am too comfortable with the sharp edges of my reality. I accept my tumor, my back, and Parkinson’s will have its inevitable conclusion. 

On these days, when it all stands still, I no longer feel the need for bravado. I give up my self-delusion. I hesitantly embrace the knowledge that no matter how many stairs I climb or ellipses I travel, no matter how hard I push my heart or how much weight I lift, neither heart nor head will be healthy enough to pump meaning into COVID.

And in these ‘still’ moments, I reclaimed missed opportunities. I love strangers with an intensity I never knew. On this day in mid-May, as the night begins, I walk and find silent streets: no restaurant lines, no children riding bicycles, no couples strolling in the park. It had taken the combined will of thousands to love one another so much that time stopped. Millions ultimately accepted the immense challenge and silenced life, their life. 

I feel so grateful for the sacrifice. And for this moment, I am so profoundly proud of everyone that nothing more critical exists for me … neither cancer nor a lousy back.

Watching Chris Cuomo last night work through his Coronavirus diagnosis and displaying his chest x-ray was amazing. In some ways, Cuomo became a folk hero of sorts, battling adversity to keep the public informed and outlining his self-quarantine modeling. However well-intentioned he was, Cuomo’s bravado perpetuates an ongoing problem: to stay employed, you must work through illness.

My company issued an internal employee policy that provides an additional amount of time off for COVID-19 recovery. All that’s required is the willingness to ‘self-disclose.’ They created a self-disclosure button in the HR portal. It’s easy. Click that ‘self-reporting’ button, enter the information, and submit. 

In my world, any 60-year-old would likely not choose to self-report. For those in my age bracket, self-reporting It’s just another opportunity to eviscerate yourself to the sidelines, an exit to unemployment.

My Parkinson’s was diagnosed 45 days ago. Feels like a 1,000. I spent the first two weeks in a fog-just reading anything possible about Parkinson’s. Not usually a movie star biography reader, I read every word of Michael J. Fox’s autobiography in two days. However, outside of my doctor and case manager, I haven’t told a soul.

I experienced two weeks of reflection, then Coronavirus exploded. It feels 9,000 miles an hour since. Good or bad, there’s been no time to think about Parkinson’s. Neither have I thought of my normal daily position, the pain of dealing with loss, nor coping with demanding people who filter in and out of everyday life. What living with Parkinson’s has allowed me to d is notice something important. Just like pre-COVID, some days are good, some days are bad. Some days, the tremors were noticeable. Other days, it wasn’t. For four days, no Parkinson’s symptoms. Today? Bam. Back with a vengeance. No matter what I did, tremors rumbled. 

Like Tom Hanks’ character in Cast Away talking to Wilson (a volleyball), I sometimes find myself talking to Parkinson’s as if it were real.

God damn it. Not today. I have too much shit going on to deal with you.”

I am unfamiliar with this new world. I am lost. So, I read of a blogger who suggested I find celebrities living with Parkinson’s. My first search found Michael J. Fox, Muhammad Ali, Janet Reno, Charles Schulz, Linda Ronstadt, Johnny Isakson, and Billy Graham. Not that their stories aren’t compelling, it’s just that only three remain alive.

Another interesting thought about post-Parkinson’s diagnosis is cadence. The rhythm of 5 AM, 1 PM, and 9 PM Carbidopa/Levodopa ensures interrupted sleep. And even then, I sometimes wake at 2:00 AM, stiff. Afterwhich, I stumble to the recliner with the best intention of meditating, only to promptly fall asleep. I often wake exhausted.

Unlike Chris Cuomo, I will not publicly announce either Parkinson’s or COVID. I will never click that ‘self-report’ button. Sure, it’s probably the right thing to do, for both coworkers and me. But if I were working from home (being a member of the 55+ club), I’d likely mark my door with blood, keep working remote, and hope for a passover by the God of COVID.

The impulse to work through an illness is crushing, especially now, when workers with truly essential jobs face pressure to do likewise. In my career, I’ve never received a message saying, ‘You’re so important, we have to make sure you take care of yourself and your loved ones.’ Not once. Rather, my career was filled the mantra that devotion to retaining a job, meant personal sacrifice, for the workplace was the ultimate value.

As Joanna Wiess noted, “The impulse to prove an uncommon work ethic isn’t limited to pandemics. It’s on display when Elon Musk brags about working 120 hours a week, or when a high-powered female executive goes back to work within days or weeks of delivering a baby.

I don’t like it. But’s that’s where America is. 

It’s not some mythical inner spirit that helps me overcome an encroaching disease. It’s neither a Buddhist nor Christian philosophy. There’s not even a personal mission to the greater glory. For me, it’s the ‘stupid philosophy’ that allows me to retain employment. With over 10 million unemployment claims over the past several weeks, that’s important.

I don’t like it. I don’t want to have to work through the pain, but that’s where many of us are.

Because It’s Wednesday

Understanding ‘down days’ has been easy. I ignored them. For the past five or six years, I never understood why I felt great one day while stuck in second the next. Since doctors readily dismissed my symptoms, the only avenue left was ‘out of sight, out of mind.’

Yeah. I get it. The approach wasn’t the best plausible approach, but it was the most effective.

How do you feel today?”
I am feeling slower,” I’d respond.
Any idea why?
Hell, I don’t know. It’s Wednesday.

I’ve written about this before: For close to a decade, pain has been a companion. Legs were stiff as far back as 2010; neck stiffness graced my presence in 2014; neck and shoulder pain announced itself in 2016; and arm spasticity followed in 2019, with on and off twinges of the foot, hand and finger issues. During such times, mental fortitude and daily, a multi-daily dose of pain medications were downed like M&M peanuts in a snack bowl.

As the years drifted by, and while doctors could detect the problem, fortitude and drugs allowed to forget. With them, I was equal. No one knew.

A year ago, I was informed that only two good years remained. “Prognosis is poor,” the report stated. Post-surgery, I thought the surgeon might have bought additional time. Last Friday’s Parkinson’s diagnosis was a shot across the bow, a reminder to accept the frailty, the beauty, and the levity of life.

The tumor was my blessing. Maybe via that and Parkinson’s, I can relearn the opportunities of profound growth and how to access gifts untapped. Maybe in the next year, I get more family photographs, visit Zion and Bryce Canyon, and walk along the Snake River Canyon.

I know there will be some dark days, some scary twists and turns. And I will find comfort in the kindness of others. They will be my angels along the highway – never forgotten. God and Ms. K. will provide strength and support from which I always drew.
Lastly, there’s my internal staff: Fortitude. Always had it, always will.

In whatever you do, I wish everyone health and an appreciation for all that life offers.

If that doesn’t work, blame it on Wednesday.

Silence

Parkinson’s. … Parkinson’s. Another crossroad of life – my life. Four days post-Parkinson’s, I remain quiet. Not a word. Not a soul. And unlike my tumor, to which I told only a selected few, nothing.
Like my tumor, I don’t want Parkinson’s to by my identity. I know it will (eventually), but not now. Not yet. I can’t handle this being the forefront of life. Just can’t.
I don’t want to be dependent. In Tuesdays with Morrie, author Mitch Albom noted the loss of control that leads people to rely upon others unconditionally. For me, Parkinson’s represents a loss of self. Maybe it’s the fact someone gets to wipe your a••. Not sure if that’s good or bad.

Albom’s work was about his conversations with a former professor, Morris “Morrie” S. Schwartz. One night, Schwartz was talking to Nightline host Ted Koppel.

“Well, Ted, one day soon, someone’s gonna have to wipe my ass. It’s the ultimate sign of dependency. Someone wiping your bottom. But I’m working on it.”

In my way, Parkinson’s scares me more than my tumor. Depending upon the story, Parkinson’s is slow. And while cancer can be as well, the thought of losing my mind, my thoughts, my most inner secret is worrisome.

The good news is that I know I will die. I have too much negativity in this old body to make it too much farther down the road—arthritis, Cervical Stenosis, a tumor, and now Parkinson’s. But dying is more than negativity; it’s about the positivity that I understand my death, and that to live better despite it.

A significant part of me is not to whither against the hard rain darting past my hat. I aim not to disappear. The key for me is the daily query of one repetitive question, “How do I make the best of it?” I believe in the life hereafter. I believe Ms. K., will meet me. I believe in a spiritual force. I believe in God. I believe in love.

And that’s where I want to live. And that’s why I will probably say zilch until I absolutely must. I prefer to live in the center of those items just listed then in Parkinson’s. I should have done that all along.

Lies We Believe

The two days post-Parkinson’s diagnosis was spent reflecting. Admittedly, I accomplished little. Yeah, 2019 taxes remain partially complete, but there’s laundry, mail, and several medical bills. Prima facially, I accomplished little, but inwardly, I accomplished much. 

Much like my tumor, I’ve told no one of my Parkinson’s diagnosis. If revealed, one would probably curse my doctors, tell me to sue or at least write a well-thought nasty letter. Sure, I could spit in my original neuro’s face. Yeah. That doctor who blatantly told me in April 2015 told me to see a psychiatrist. I could have done that. I didn’t.

I could have attempted an angle. As a former rescueman who risked his, I effectively calculated all aspects. I was known for quickly summarizing the best outcome, and often, beat back the face of death. Doing such was a lie I told myself and others.

Such lies bring comfort. If you’re dying, you want comfort God will dispatch angels to comfort and carry you. A young mother wants to believe doctors will heal their child or husband. If you lost your medical insurance, you’ll gladly listen to and swallow a politicians’ lure’ of free health care.

I could blame my neuro for all my ills. I could. I won’t. Why? Because I was the lie, I told myself. I’ve known for years my back was stiff, stiff leg muscles and pain, a left stiff arm, bad dreams, the nights I couldn’t sleep, and the ever so slight internal and left-hand tremor. I dropped more coffee cups and glasses than I could count. I just lied.

You need to see a neurologist,” She urged.

Ah, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. They’ll tell me nothing’s wrong.”

I don’t know,” she frowned. “There’s something about your symptoms that don’t make sense.

I relied on my ability to elude danger. Like forty years prior, Celecoxib, Gabapentine, Tizanidine, Tylenol 1, and Tylenol 3 were my lies. Arthritis drugs killed the pain but didn’t treat the disease. The tumor forced me to address the pain. 

I didn’t have much choice. The surgeon who removed my tumor stated I required a neuro eval. And coming full-circle, I returned to the very clinic that ignored me years prior. In less than an hour, I went from viewing doctors’ confusion to hear, “We believe you have Parkinson’s.;” to hearing, “You have Parkinson’s;” to “I’m sorry.”

William Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.What Shakespeare is referencing is the drama everyone lives throughout their lives. He reduces life to performance or acting. To which, oftentimes looks ridiculous.

Is there some connection between truthfulness and personal integrity? Possibly. Spiritual men and women often had a disdain for lies. In fact, “not lying” one of the fundamental training practices of his path of self-transformation. “Not lying” might raise some ethical issues. For instance, what if a Nazi guard asked if Anne Frank was in our attic? Would I have lied? Of course.

The practice of deceiving with myself of true inner healing via false medication was like a sailboat anchored to the shore. I had a role in my own lie. I lived to the act, and my decision making was ridiculous. All of us need to focus on good days – living as many good ones as possible. Tomorrow, I promise to have a good day. 

Promise me you’ll live only good days.

 

“It is in the nature of medicine that you are gonna screw up. You are gonna kill someone. If you can’t handle that reality, pick another profession. Or finish medical school and teach.”

~ Gregory House ~

Dr. House’s comment while substituting as a guest lecturer. Unfortunately, Dr. House’s statement to the interns occurs all too often. It happened to me this past Friday. I likened it to something out of Charles Dickinson’s Tale of Two Cities.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair . . .”

I returned for my post-operation evaluation. Good News. The operation was successful. Bad News. The symptoms remained relatively the same. My neuro was positive that removing the tumor would make some positive impact.

Studying the medical history, a sharp, bright, neurological nurse looked at my medical history, then she squinted and studied further. Her first poke went unacknowledged. With careful forethought, she grabbed a piece of the neuro’s flesh, twisted slightly. Turning to look where she pointed, the neuro read. He read again. And again. He pulled up the MRI from 2015. And he read. Read again. And again.

They excused themselves.

Ten minutes later, several doctors, en mass, poked and prodded. They left, leaving the neurological nurse and me to kill time quietly. After eons of seconds, she sympathetically smiled me. “We believe you have Parkinson’s.”

Pause . . . Long pause. 

I must have had this WTF expression, but just as she was about to follow-up, the flock of physicians returned.

“In 2015, the MRI we performed indicated over seven supratentorial FLAIR hyperintense lesions or plaques. We should have noted these. We misread the MRI. While there is no one single test that can verify Parkinson’s, this finding and your symptoms demonstrate the diagnosis. Unfortunately, your Parkinson’s has been untreated for at least five years.”

“All this time I was told, ‘nothing to be done,’ we recommend a psychiatrist…”

“Was awful,” he interrupted. Soulfully searching for the right words, “I am sorry.”

The tumor still had to come out. The remaining portion of the tumor still residing in my neck still remains. All the while, physicians had either denied my symptoms or attributed to the tumor was wrong. All those years of pain and suffering. All it took was for a twenty-year veteran neurological nurse to read the chart and connect the dots. 

I am still processing, but I left in peace. “Why?” one would wonder. Well, I found some level of peace in the doctor’s words.

“Better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace.”

~ Buddha ~

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