 |
 |
When I was in my teens I was having to adjust to life in a wheelchair along with the many other things a young person must deal with. I started writing notes to myself concerning how I felt. After reading the letters I tore them up tossed them in the trash. This habit continued well into college when I found friends who listened. Then pencil and paper gave way to a vocal expression of fears, loss, happiness and success. I was diagnosed with PD a little less than two years ago. At first just the relief of knowing I was not going to die and that there were medicines to help me was enough to keep me going. Then the writing appeared as though it had been waiting patiently like a forgotten friend. At first I hid the letters in a directory on my computer and erased them a few weeks later. Then one night I sent one here. I still don't know why. I guess it felt more like tossing the pain into the wind and so removing it from me. Someone asked me not to throw them away . Here is a bad one. You may want to skip it. I can't move. I've got to get to the bathroom bad. I can move. But not fast enough to make it. I used to be able to get out of bed myself. I still can. But not in time! Solution! There has to be one! Find it! You only have minutes. Try this, that, something else. Possible, but not in time! Solution! No! Yes, Help! Help! Help me please! She wakes up and answers. Tears start to flow. We get out of bed go to the bathroom. "You can do it. You're doing fine. I love you." Over and over the soft voice continues. Offering hope, strength, support, and love. We make it to the bathroom. No accidents and in time. The tears keep coming. One more bit knocked out of the wall of independence built up over the years. Old fears return with a power long forgotten. "You can do it. You're doing fine. I love you." Slowly, the fears melt away. The soft voice offers a reason for the inability. The tears lessen and disappear. "Thank you." "I love you." Can't sleep. Amid the snoring, a computer blinks to life. Marvin Giles @>--->---- [log in to unmask]