The next day I met another Winkler friend for coffee at Mulligans again. Her husband is also living with Parkinson’s.
I tell her about my intention to begin blogging about my experience. But this time, I don’t want to just complain about it   I want to turn it into an adventure story—perhaps even fictionalizing it - changing names, inventing characters, blending experiences so that people aren’t recognizable or retraumatized.

“I’m even thinking of renaming Parkinson’s,” I say. “Maybe I’ll call it Parker—something I can say without flinching.”
She laughs. “Perfect.”

Then we start talking about the other characters in this Parker community. There are the faithful caregivers. How will they be portrayed? What name should I give them?

She laughs again. “What about Polly?”  She explains - because it hints of at Pollyanna attitude—that hopeful, sometimes naïve idea that they can be perfect caregivers.  She smiles. “We are always patient, always wise, always strong.”

Then I begin describing another character in this new life plot. The one I keep wrestling with. The one I call God who plays a different role in this new challenge. I wonder about naming him the Elephant.

But why the name Elephant? An elephant is intelligent. It remembers. It carries weight. It travels long distances. It moves slowly but deliberately. The elephant in the room can be a real but unseen presence.

Both of us know the story of the six blind men coming upon an elephant. They feel their way around the elephant’s tusk, tail, side, and ear, and they draw different conclusions about what an elephant is. The blind man holding the tail says, “An elephant is like a snake.” The one with the tusk says, “An elephant is like a spear.” The one by the side says, “An elephant is like a wall.” And so on. There is freedom in that story – there is one God – huge – and we will all experience him differently.

And just then—while we are talking about this elephant— the restaurant background music starts playing the song by Chris Tomlin, "Holy Forever." 

The words fill the room.

They fill our souls.
 
And the angels cry, “Holy”
All Creation cries, “Holy”
You are lifted high, holy
Holy forever

The restaurant has turned into a sanctuary. We remind ourselves that we are.in a golf course restaurant on a weekday morning… which just makes it all the more unexpected – more special.

This time my tears come out of a sense of awe. It is truly a God moment.

When a man lives with God, his voice shall be as sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn. -  Ralph Waldo Emerson
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My Winnipeg friend sensed I was shutting down. When I admitted that I was having trouble expressing myself - finding words, she said. “Maybe you should blog about it. In the past when you faced enormous challenges you defeated them by exposing them – and we all benefited from your honesty.”

I stiffened. “What do you mean you benefitted?”

She smiled. “When you found yourself filled with rage, you told us that you wanted to kill ten child murderers – and then you went so far as to tell us that pulling the trigger felt delicious – like eating chocolate cake. We need that kind of honesty.”

I ponder her words. I know– I have used my blogging to process my life. It seems I can’t move on until I’ve put my truth into words – whatever truth it is. Some truths are beautiful – some are lovely – some are a bit scary.

Then today I met with another friend at Mulligans here in Winkler. Her husband has Parkinson’s disease and I find her experience with Parkinson's invaluable.  We started talking—she asks me how I am doing —and something in me cracked open.

And I cried. I cried and I cried some more,

Not polite tears. Not composed tears. These tears flowed out of me like snowmelt in spring—cold, clear, ancient. They bubbled up from somewhere deep inside of me.  

My Winnipeg friend might be right. I am in not in control - I am either shutting down or bubbling out of control.
But should I blog about this? I know I used to blog when we were going through the court trials – it was a way of keeping my family and supporting friends informed. But this is somehow different.

This is cellular. This is my own body shifting beneath me. This is pure body trauma.

And I’m not ready for this. thing...  I’m not ready for tremors and timelines and the way people’s eyes shift when they hear the name of my illness.

And yet--the tears tell me something.
Silence is no longer protection. Silence is pressure.

Maybe it’s time to talk about my truth – my dreadful truth.

I'm going to blog. That means I'm just going to say whatever comes to mind   - post 5 days a week -  and see what I come up with.  But this time I'm going to also publish one of  Cliff's  "Still Life" photographs -  he took so many and they will  add beauty to this journey I am on - and we will need as much beauty as we can get. 
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No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.”― Robert Frost
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Photo by: Cliff Derksen