To Grieve is Human, to Grow is Harder

                                                       Photo by Max Berger on Unsplash

This post is not meant to be a pity party. It's meant to help me process grief. I have struggled to accept that I have Parkinson’s, which is bad enough. But a friend recently stepped out of my life because of it, which is worse. 

For three years, Carol (not her real name) was an integral part of my life as my mobility trainer, garden consultant and friend. But not necessarily in that order. Or so I thought. Carol was referred to me by my therapist. My therapist is a connector who seemingly knows everyone on the planet. When Carol initially called me, I was slow to warm, unimpressed. (Being unimpressed may be a defensive strategy on my part; I see that now. If I don't let people in, I can't get hurt.) After several months pondering the situation, I decided to give her a whirl.

Over the course of several visits, Carol's role in my life blossomed and grew, like the vines on my trellis. She helped me move and feel better. She gave me new appreciation for tending to my beloved garden. Her green thumb, keen listening skills and vulnerability led to genuine connection. We multitasked, tending to my disease, my backyard and our friendship, all at one go, a couple times a week. Talking about everything under the sun (pun intended) while nurturing roses filled my cup. I felt like I really knew her and could be myself, neuroses and all. 

When my disease (Parkinson's, not addiction) took a turn for the worse, it became difficult for me to do the mobility regimen without pain. I struggled to sleep and became more depressed. Sometimes I couldn’t help but fall asleep mid-mobility exercise…one, two, three, conk.  I’d be out cold. Carol's visits naturally became more social and less structured. I depended on her support. I see now that was a mistake. 

Parkinson's is a progressive disease that (unfortunately) doesn't kill you. The main cause of death for people afflicted with Parkinson's is asphyxiation pneumonia, which I've beaten once. I'm not sure I could overcome it again. My nine lives seem to be dwindling. My point being that I didn't intend or decide to become less mobile, or unable to stay awake during my sessions with Carol. It was not personal. 

Nonetheless, in all of her compassionate wisdom, Carol eventually shared she didn’t want to work with me anymore. Since I really wasn’t up for mobility, she had no reason to continue to see me. That was a shocker. I was under the illusion that we were friends and that our relationship was less transactional than based on love and trust. It feels like she bailed on me (and the flowers) when we needed her most. Granted, I didn't beg her to stay and may have wanted her to read my mind and then change her mind. But I was back in my shell at that point, guarded and girded. 

As my disease progresses, it will only get worse, not better. My fear is that people will leave me because I am too much of a burden.  Do I miss Carol?  Of course. Do I blame her?  I’m not sure. I just know it is a terrible loss. She was an important part of my support team, and now she is gone. Goodbye Carol.

As I write, Lucky, my dog regards me with his unconditionally loving eyes. Depressed, immobile, growing or not, Lucky has my back. I'm grateful for that...and my tender roses.