My Therapy
I Thought I Was Going to Die
We often use the phrase “I thought I was gonna die” casually—just an expression of fear. But yesterday, I truly felt like I wasn’t going to make it. I was scheduled to be one of the speakers at a provincial conference in Carman, hosted for palliative care volunteers and administrators. I had said yes at a time when I felt good—confident that I could do it. But I hadn’t anticipated that Parkinson’s would begin to show itself so dramatically—or that it would erode my confidence the way it has.
So, there I was, standing in front of an audience, asked to speak on the importance of story—a subject I love. That part was easy. I began, as I often do, by sharing my own stories—starting with the experience of being the parent of a murdered child. I revisited that chapter in detail.
Then I talked about what it means to be a widow. I explained how that status has shaped my identity. I brought in some comic relief by sharing our love story—how Cliff and I fell in love. That part is always fun. I then told the story of my Parkinson’s diagnosis, sharing a new insight I’ve had about executive function—something I hadn’t fully understood until recently.
After the talk, I stepped down and was surrounded by a group of warm, beautiful people who offered kind words and encouragement. Their response overwhelmed me.
What struck me most was how I had spoken to three different groups in one room.
First, there were those who resonated with the forgiveness dilemma in the story of Candace’s murder. Then there were those who understood the complexities of widowhood—not necessarily because they were widows themselves, but because they recognized the stigma and loneliness that often come with it. And finally, there were those who responded to my experience with Parkinson’s. This was the first time I had publicly shared that part of my journey. I couldn’t have asked for a better audience—people trained, experienced, and naturally gifted in the art of listening.
I’m used to people approaching me about the criminal aspect of Candace’s story. I’m also familiar with the silence that surrounds widowhood. But I had never talked about Parkinson’s publicly—until now.
Telling my story like that was the best therapy I could have asked for.
“My story is a freedom song from within my soul. It is a guide to discovery, a vision of how even the worst pain and heartaches can be channeled into human monuments, impenetrable and everlasting.”—Coretta Scott King
We often use the phrase “I thought I was gonna die” casually—just an expression of fear. But yesterday, I truly felt like I wasn’t going to make it. I was scheduled to be one of the speakers at a provincial conference in Carman, hosted for palliative care volunteers and administrators. I had said yes at a time when I felt good—confident that I could do it. But I hadn’t anticipated that Parkinson’s would begin to show itself so dramatically—or that it would erode my confidence the way it has.
So, there I was, standing in front of an audience, asked to speak on the importance of story—a subject I love. That part was easy. I began, as I often do, by sharing my own stories—starting with the experience of being the parent of a murdered child. I revisited that chapter in detail.
Then I talked about what it means to be a widow. I explained how that status has shaped my identity. I brought in some comic relief by sharing our love story—how Cliff and I fell in love. That part is always fun. I then told the story of my Parkinson’s diagnosis, sharing a new insight I’ve had about executive function—something I hadn’t fully understood until recently.
After the talk, I stepped down and was surrounded by a group of warm, beautiful people who offered kind words and encouragement. Their response overwhelmed me.
What struck me most was how I had spoken to three different groups in one room.
First, there were those who resonated with the forgiveness dilemma in the story of Candace’s murder. Then there were those who understood the complexities of widowhood—not necessarily because they were widows themselves, but because they recognized the stigma and loneliness that often come with it. And finally, there were those who responded to my experience with Parkinson’s. This was the first time I had publicly shared that part of my journey. I couldn’t have asked for a better audience—people trained, experienced, and naturally gifted in the art of listening.
I’m used to people approaching me about the criminal aspect of Candace’s story. I’m also familiar with the silence that surrounds widowhood. But I had never talked about Parkinson’s publicly—until now.
Telling my story like that was the best therapy I could have asked for.
“My story is a freedom song from within my soul. It is a guide to discovery, a vision of how even the worst pain and heartaches can be channeled into human monuments, impenetrable and everlasting.”—Coretta Scott King
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