The lime-light is not a place where I go to find comfort. I am out of my element on a stage wired up with a “lavalier”. I pride myself on self-sufficiency so the luxury of someone making all my travel plans for me, is still a bit awkward. These gestures of appreciation served as another gentle reminder that it’s time to celebrate the death of a dream.
Accessibility
I never envisioned that one day I would be a public speaker, and in all honesty, wondered why anyone would want to be. To stand in front of a crowd, sober, and communicate something that I live out each day, living with Parkinson’s, in a way that is engaging is still rather new to me. Not the sobriety, the public speaking.
They were there to hear my story and how it connects to their story. All they want to hear is how their efforts can make, and are making, a difference in the lives of ordinary people like me. Nothing technical, bio-medical, or physiological, just a story about one family’s humanity is what they came to hear.
Authenticity
My audience wasn’t looking to me for insight into why my treatment plan works. They just want to hear what can happen when it does. It was as if didn’t have say anything; they could see it. They heard tones of hope in our unified voice, and optimism in the words that we choose, and they saw the vigor and vitality in our eyes. This was a time to celebrate what is possible when words of hope are delivered with authenticity.
It’s a beautiful thing, when an audience is moved. To our gracious hosts, the story of our lives makes such a difference. They too are battling the same disease as I am, just on a different front and in a much different way. They too need to hear of their accomplishments and to celebrate with us and for us.
Affirmation
When I speak to an audience on the subject of my Parkinson’s, the words don’t always come out easily or eloquently, and at times I still have to visibly choke back emotions. I am sustained by these words of affirmation as they echo through my mind , “we are like family.” More than just words; we are greeted with hospitality that is always southern and always sincere and a friendship that is heartfelt. For those that didn’t think I had one, a heart, well it turns out that I do.
Affinity
During our few days in Phoenix, I wish that I had kept track of how many of those in attendance introduced themselves and began to share their story of a parent, of an aunt or uncle, of a friend or neighbor that has Parkinson’s. They leave with our words of encouragement and we leave with their connection to a larger community.
When we parted ways, I was left with the firm belief that we made a difference in how each of them sees someone with PD and each was invigorated to press on.
Acceptance
This time, leaving felt different. This time, I left with a renewed assurance that now is the time to celebrate the death of a dream. The dream of a life free from illness or ravaged by the effects of aging has been dead for some time. For the first time in a very long time, I felt it was time to not only embrace this new dream but to celebrate its arrival. In spite of what felt like a stuttering, stammering and emotional presentation, the true essence of who I have become, because of my Parkinson’s, is now blooming like the flower on the desert cactus.
Now is the time to celebrate the death of that dream that was holding me back from becoming the person who I was intended to be.
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Al and his faithful sidekick, Ivy the wonder pup.