Yesterday, Laurie left for a week in Texas to visit my daughter, her husband, and our new grandchild. I was pleasantly surprised by my positive mood on the departure morning, despite a near-incapacitating run-in with dental floss that had me laughing my ass off while exhibiting no-kidding concern that I might lose the use of a finger.
It has been almost two years since my knee replacement surgeries, two procedures in as many days, that brutally knocked me back (the second, unplanned surgery was to repair an inexplicable bleeder along the incision line). I am finally climbing out of the post-surgical hole, and despite rapidly progressing Parkinson’s symptoms, I also sense the possibility of a substantial physical turnaround.
Although I am not particularly afraid of death, I am also not quite ready for the transition. It is unknown whether I can leverage my spiritual awakening and transmute it into an energetically effective ally. The prospect of established peace, joined with sheer tenacity, empowers me to give it my best shot.
My challenge is clear. Sitting in a fully extended recliner, I am utterly spent, unable to move, think, or release myself from destiny’s web of dental floss. An attempted smile hangs in dumb deliberation as I stare into space, my mouth hanging open. I remain reclined, alone, trying to be unafraid. Parkinson’s “off” time, the confused, calm-looking state of wretched, stagnant suffering, is far worse than the version of painful writhing, foot-dragging contortions.
I struggle to stand up and address my watching muse. A comeback promises to be the most grueling challenge of my life. And potentially the most rewarding. If a turnaround spins out in frustrated agony, that will be okay, though. As learned during the search for the lost Intruder, in the end, everything is okay.