This NaPoWriMo Challenge is a wonderful way to expand my learning as a new poet. I have chosen a subject that evokes an avalanche of emotions, the expression of which is a challenge in and of itself. Parkinson's and in particular, PSP (Progressive Supranuclear Palsy) comes in as many forms as does poetry, so why not use poetry to tell its story in all its phases and its colors. Not only did I choose to do this for myself as a means to process how my husband's diagnosis has impacted my life, but in doing so, I hope to give voice and comfort to others, so that they know that they are not alone. With patience and grace, I strive to accept and accustom myself to the faltering steps of this journey, trusting that the path will be made clear to me.
I re-post here, for the sake of clarity, this poem that tells of the day of diagnosis. It is the first day of the journey that began a year ago.
THIS IS A GOOD DAY (originally posted on February 7, 2023)
"This is a good day," the neurologist says,
in his practiced, clinical voice
mouthing a wilderness of words,
their meanings mysterious, menacing...
He gestures towards the MRI film
a chiaroscuro map that I am not trained to read.
He tells us that this is atypical Parkinson's.
I have to claw my way to the actual diagnosis
as if my arriving at the name of the disease
is what I have been tasked to do.
To understand.
To accept.
PSP
Progressive Supranuclear Palsy
Rivulets of tears stream down my cheeks.
I cannot see my husband's face
from where I am standing
But I can "see" the expressionless stare
as he sits, holding his recently operated shoulder still
as his "it's just essential tremors"
tremor...
as his "resting tremors" take no rest
"Nothing has changed today, just because you have a diagnosis,"
"This is a good day," the neurologist repeats.
I am losing my footing.
My breath is shallow and fast.
The man in the white coat mentions
"the hummingbird sign"
as he points to the MRI film,
that damn image again
a road map to an unknown destination,
that does not indicate the distance,
nor offer any directions,
that hints at rough terrain ahead,
but not the time line,
nor type of transport needed,
for a trek we have not planned,
that begins now
on this good day...
"Look it up on the Internet, google it," he instructs us
as he orders a prescription for Carbidopa/Levodopa.
And then he is gone.
What is it that frightens me so?
Could it be the knowing
that someday I will look back on this moment
and know
that this was indeed a good day.
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