Talking to My Brother

My brother Esa died when he was 23 years old in a motorcycle accident. That was a long time ago, but in the past two days I have been “talking” with him, trying to understand our relationship and what his early death meant for me.

            He was two years older than me and I understood that he was superior to me in every way. Of course he was superior to me in strength, speed and in other physical ways, but he always won every game of Monopoly, Stratego or any game we ever played. My father commented recently that Esa got better report cards than I did, which offended me, but it’s probably true. He was handsome, and early on I think most people thought he was the best looking of the family.

            When he died, I found myself looking back and having difficulty finding many good memories of him. Instead I remembered all the times he mocked, teased or insulted me, calling me ugly, fat or slow, and in many ways being unkind. We didn’t talk to each other except in this kind of banter, which was sometimes humorous, but never nice. If he had friends around he looked at me scornfully and wouldn’t let me near them. When people die, especially young people who die tragically, no one criticizes them. How was I publicly to deal with my brother’s death? What I did was say nothing.

            So, now I have a disease, one that I believe has a psychological source. I wonder how 21 years worth of ridicule, of my body especially, might have affected me? In my meditation practice, which is also prayer and contemplation, I have talked to Esa about this issue. I tell him it’s not his fault, and that I forgive him. And I have asked him for help, because I think he can help me, and because I think he would want to. Sadly for him and for me, he died before he had a chance to be a better person to me, his little sister.           

Training for the Circus

I’ve been falling more than usual and I’m carrying the bruises to prove it.

            In August my big toe caught on the edge of a rug, resulting in a sprained toe and other wrenched and bruised body parts. Did I stop stripping the bureau I was working on? No. Typical PD personality, I kept at it and only later noticed my toe was swollen and black and blue. It’s still bothering me.

            On my birthday, after brandy (bad idea), I fell twice on the way to bed. No serious damage, so I imagine the alcohol helped me fall softly.

            Heading towards the receptionist in Dr. K’s office last week, I hurtled down the hall and fell flat on my stomach in the waiting room. There were cries and gasps from all around, but I was basically all right except for a skinned palm.

            And finally, last night carrying beer to put in the fridge, I miscalculated the step up to the kitchen and came crashing down on my shins. The beer bottles were not broken, nor was I. But when I later looked at the damage there was a goose egg below my left knee. Both shins are getting a thrice-daily treatment with arnica ointment to ease the pain and hopefully avoid a dramatic color show.

            This is quite a concern and a strong case for giving in and taking the meds. What can I do? I need to have some kind of support at all times I guess. I’ve taken to using a walking stick as the most helpful option that I’ve tried. I’m not inclined to do 100% wheelchair and I hope never have to.

            I just keep repeating, “I have the power to heal myself.”

Blog Problems!

I'm enjoying writing a blog, but am having problems with it. I haven't been able to post comments to anyone - I've tried. So that's why you don't hear from me fellow bloggers. Also, followers are not showing up on the page, and I know because they've told me. Help forum has yet to be enlightening. I can still write posts though, so I'll continue.

The Journey

Beatrice was given the name, Allowing the Light because of her “deep connection to The Light as the main source to facilitate healing and transformation.” Before she described her journey to me, she explained that what she saw was symbolic and that it might take some time before I would understand what the symbols meant. What follows is a brief description of her journey.

* * *

            She saw me confined in a tight box underground or underwater. “Like the womb?” I asked. “No, because it’s not comfortable.”

I’m not moving so they (Beatrice and the Light) start to pour light over me. Gradually I look up and move a little and they help me out of the box.

Beatrice asks what is needed to heal me and she sees that big shocks, including the accidental deaths of my son and brother, have taken part of my vital energy. She calls my son and then my brother and they bring energy back to me. My son George also uses a glass ball with rainbow colors to rub on my body to help heal it. He says he will do this everyday. They give me a bath with carnations. They decide I should see a nutritionist for help with my diet.

Next they take me to a natural place where I transform into a big bird, but my body cannot yet fly though my essence can. They show me how to get support from the earth. Finally Beatrice sees me standing wearing a long dress and looking healthy, still with my wings.

She calls Henry, but she can see “his struggle and reserve.” She performs a ritual to connect us and pours light on our household.

 Beatrice wrote down exercises for grounding, centering and to connect with nature and the earth. She described the South American carnation bathing ritual so I could do that as well. She recommended getting advice for using essential oils.

When we talked she suggested I converse with George daily, that if we still maintained a relationship it would help others in my family, too.

When I came home I drew myself in the box, the first real drawing I have done in a long time.

The Shaman

I have just returned from my third visit to the town of Bath. I went to soak in the natural warm springs and get a massage along with two of my friends from high school. But this time, while browsing on the Internet to book appointments at one of the spas, I learned about Beatrice, a shamanic healer. I was intrigued. My knowledge of shamanism was limited to reading Carlos Castaneda years ago, but the books have lingered in my imagination. So I made the appointment for a two-hour healing session with Beatrice.

            We first sat across from each other at a little table and she asked me questions: why I was there, about my illness, what events preceded my becoming ill, and what persons, living or dead, did she have my mandate “to call” for assistance in helping me heal. I gave her permission to call my deceased son and brother and my living husband. Then the ritual began.

            Standing in the center of a white rug, she lit candles and a smudge stick and waved the smoke on me with a large black feather. Then I lay on the rug and she asked me to smell different essential oils. She dabbed two of my favorites on my neck. Covered with a blanket, wearing an eye mask, and headphones to eliminate distractions, I was instructed to focus on my breath and relax my body. She lay down beside me to take a shamanic journey seeking answers and instructions.

            Beatrice started a recording of drumming for me to listen to, but I could still hear her take perhaps six very powerful breaths before she became quiet and still. After a long period of steady drumming the music increased in tempo, then stopped. Beatrice rose and told me she was going to blow energy into my body. She put her mouth and cupped hands on my belly, then heart, then the top of my head and blew. She told me to stay lying down and continue to relax. She was going to write down what she saw.

            When she was done writing she began to do bodywork on me. While she worked she asked if I liked to eat and if I ate well. She suggested I see a nutritionist because she thought there might be a problem in that area. She also suggested I might benefit from cranio-sacral therapy because I seemed to need more “space” in my body.

            At last we returned to the little table to go over her notes. She promised to email them to me so I needn’t worry about remembering it all. When I receive them I will share them in a post. There is too much to recall, and I want to be accurate. I will say now that it was an intense, personal experience.

           

           

Gifts Out of Nowhere

Last summer when I was in Santa Cruz for therapy, Henry pushed me in the wheelchair to a downtown bookstore and parked me in the art section. The first book I pulled off the shelf was about Swoon, a street artist. I opened it and found tucked inside a black and white drawing of a dandelion in a state of artistic transformation. On the back was this handwritten message:

KEEP THIS…

YOU HAVE FOUND ONE OF MANY DRAWINGS I HAVE MADE AND LEFT OUT IN THE WORLD. BY FINDING THIS IT WAS MEANT TO BE YOURS, THE UNIVERSE CONSPIRED TO BRING YOU TO THIS PLACE. AND THE DRAWING TO YOU.

            I did keep it. I have yet to communicate with S. Zontos, the artist who signed the drawing, but it pleased me to receive this special gift that day. My friend and fellow PDer wrote about a similar experience. I found it so profound I asked him if I could post it here:

           

           Early Friday morning, walking through my neighborhood, admiring the trees and flowers, I noticed a tiny leaf with a long stem, suspended in midair, swaying back and forth. It must have been hooked on a spider’s web strand - but no matter how closely I looked I could not see it.
           Heartened by this beauty and delicacy, I turned to continue my walk – only to see, right there, a post with a few poems neatly tacked to it. The one at eye level with the delicate leaf - only a pirouette away - was Mary Oliver’s, Wild Geese.
           This is what Mary said to me that morning:

                                                Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting, over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

From Dream Work by Mary Oliver published by Atlantic Monthly Press ©Mary Oliver

           

           

A Puppy

My son Julian turned 16 last Thursday and after weeks of Henry’s cajoling I consented and we got a puppy. Molly, a Boston Terrier, was 8 weeks old. Her breeder gave us a can of puppy food and we picked up a toy, a collar and some baby cereal on the way home. That was our total preparation.

            I woke up that night and couldn’t get back to sleep because I was worrying about the puppy. How was I going to manage?

It was already clear that I was going to be dealing with a lot of her care such as the frequent piddle that kept appearing around the house.  Over the next few days, no one had any plan to housebreak her, nor did I hear a word about taking her to a vet. The old dog continued to be neurotically afraid of the puppy. Everyone was busy and leaving me home alone.  And though the puppy was sweet, I was fretful and depressed. I can barely walk, and every step is a chore. How was I to deal with an active puppy?

But today, Monday, I got up first, fed Molly and then took her out in the still dark yard to begin housebreaking her. I kept taking her out and playing with her all day. I realized at one point that I just need to give in. Forget being anxious or resentful. Right now this little dog’s life is a priority in my life just because she’s here. Didn’t I let her in?

And I thought, maybe there’s a reason. Maybe I have something to learn from this animal. I hope so, because as my friend Janet said to explain why we both still have PD, “We have more to learn.”

Brain Stimulation

Another visit to Dr. K and two more exercises and these are for my eyes. I have to paint a strip of cloth with blocks of red or orange and white. Henry is to pass it quickly by my eyes while I look at each of the colored blocks. In another exercise, I move my head while looking at a spot on the wall. I can’t remember how these are going to help me. Not that he didn’t try to explain.

Dr. K explains quite a bit -- about the brain, neurons, proteins, the optic nerve, etc., most of which I partially understand at the time then rapidly forget. The main gist of today’s lesson was that we are stimulating the cells of the brain that cause motor movement and creating more connections between the cells.           

            The originator of Dr. K’s theories is a Dr. Carrick*. I may try to look him up to read something and learn more.  I think this work is compatible with the other work I am doing. He agrees with J.J. that the causes of PD are electrical, not chemical. And though my understanding is poor, I have a sense that there is good sound theory in his approach.

            Finding time for the exercises will be challenging.

 

* Ted Carrick, DC, PhD, is the Distinguished PostGraduate Professor of Clinical Neurology at Logan College of Chiropractic, near St. Louis, MO. He is the author of Neurophysiological Implications in Learning, and for 21 years he has had a specialty practice limited to the diagnosis and treatment of neurological disorders. Dr. Carrick is an active brain researcher, teacher and clinician who attends patients throughout the world. From website: www.carrickinstitute.org           

A Chiropractor

I have new exercises to do recommended by my new specialist, Dr. K. My neighbor recommended him. Dr. K is a chiropractor that studied neurology for two years which I suppose gives him some expertise beyond the average chiropractor. He performed various tests to determine which parts of my brain are causing my movement disorder -- is it really Parkinson’s, he wondered, and what is Parkinson’s, because no two people diagnosed with PD have the same symptoms. He didn’t claim to understand it. Apparently he is not on board with the it’s-all-about-the-dopamine theory. He seemed to respect my aversion to medication and had other treatments to offer. 

             He gave me three exercises to begin. 1. Walk in the pool everyday. 2. Put red tape down in parallel lines two feet apart and practice walking over them to regulate my steps. 3. This exercise for my right hand:

1.     spread the fingers out wide

2.    bend one finger down to touch the palm to the count of 10

3.    curl the finger “like a shrimp”

4.    keep the fingers spread, bring the finger back up counting to ten

5.     repeat with each finger

6.    perform 5X day

These exercises all make sense to me so I will add them to my repertoire. Will I have time for anything else?

HA HA HA

Last night I tried Laughter Yoga. It’s grown from a small group in Mumbai to thousands of groups around the world. Since laughter releases dopamine and has other positive effects, I thought I should give it a try.  Three teachers took turns presenting situations: you’re late for your flight and running through the airport pulling your suitcase and LAUGHING! You’re starting up the lawnmower (vroom vroom) and mowing the lawn and LAUGHING!  We’re all in a crowded elevator and… you get the idea.

We were to act out these scenarios and make eye contact as we did them, no talking only laughing. The idea was that though we might be faking the laughter at first, by making eye contact we’d eventually be laughing for real. We ended with 5 minutes of laughter meditation – just laughing, eye contact again – and finally silent relaxation.

For me it was all rather embarrassing. I felt like a jackass with my maniacal laughter. Perhaps it’s beneficial, but I won’t be going again. I may do the homework though: 5 minutes of laughing a day. Maybe a good thing to do in the car.