Our Journey with Parkinson's

Early this summer I shared a poetry reading with a colleague and mentor, Pat Riviere Seel at the local library. We had a few sweet attendees, including my husband, Patrick. I had written a new love poem for him, and as I read it, I looked out at his face. It was completely blank, a strange sort of stare. I kept reading, trying not to take his expression to heart, but it wasn't until his diagnosis not long afterward, that I learned the effect is called "Parkinson's Mask."

We had known that something was wrong for a long time. Patrick's increasing muscular weakness, his fumbling over simple tasks, his depression, what did it mean? We feared it was dementia, so when the neurologist diagnosed him in July we were not unhappy. 

We drove directly to a Dunkin' Donuts and talked over coffee and honey dipped crullers, holding hands I remember saying "At least I am not going to lose you. Whatever happens, you will still be all there. You will be you." I have watched my Aunt Margaret slip away from me because of dementia; she doesn't know who I am any more, and it has broken my heart (as many of you with similar experiences will understand).

As months have gone by we have had time to make room for Parkinson's in our lives. We have been learning as the symptoms increase. Our lives are going to change. I recently reached out for help with You Caring. If you would like to lend a hand, please forward the link  PATRICK'S YOU CARING WEBSITE  to a few of your friends, particularly musicians who know Pat and me, who might be interested.

In love and friendship, Cathy

POETRY FOR SAMHAIN

The poet at Samhain

Samhain is the old Celtic name for All Hallows’ Eve, October 31^st

Dragon of my self-admiration,

the time for roaring is over.

Come with me to winter’s cave.

If you wish, I will whisper, down

the tunnel of your hoary ear,

praise for your lavender

and bottle-green scales, 

the gyrations of your

your whipping tongue --

but you must be still.

Tame your breath, warm the small

wood creatures below the hawthorn;

observe robins courting the holly tree,

eager for red fruit to soften, mature.

Marvel while snowflakes float

and whirl, tumble from invisible 

nets in a cobalt sky.

Listen while children sing

in bright, piping voices.

Watch as the light from

their candles threads, winking,

through the groves at midnight.

All of this will happen without you:

The trees, brown sticks in the snow,

will worship the icy silence.

The branch’s trickling song will persevere

beneath silvery panes.

Emerald mosses, soft and wet,

will cling to granite and quartz, 

spread fingers through

furrows in the damp

bark of the leaning oak

who guards the spring.

Poetry by Cathy Larson Sky from her chapbook Blue egg, my heart (Finishing Line Press, 2014) 
Paintings by the famous Sulamith Wulfing
Photos by Cathy Larson Sky, from the family land in Spruce Pine, NC.

 

LOVE (notes from a weary heart)

I’m not good at love

But I’m not bad at it either

I show up

I try

Maybe that’s all love is

I’ve hurt people who loved me

I’ve loved people who hurt me

Love and hurt seem to

Go hand in hand

Love is hard

An ambiguous art

Where does it live in me?

I can’t find it

It’s a lost continent

Among so many warring 

Places, inside

It has something to do with the color green

And a few times I have

Felt it arrive from nowhere

Most recently,

Outside a hospital gift shop

Love is not magnificent

Like a cathedral

Which cannot be God’s Love

Because I don’t believe

Love can be that big

It seems to work small

No one knows what it is

Everyone knows what it’s not

Not hate

Not killing

Not violence

Not screaming/hitting

(We tell the sandbox kids)

I want to study love

And I tell myself I do

But what is there to learn?

More like, how much is there to unlearn?

I wish love could be large

I wish it could be contagious

Like war and

Like viruses

Unstoppable

Cathy Larson Sky      September, 2017

LANCELOT VS FIDO

Twice in my childhood I was seriously humped by dogs. Once at a family summer camp. The older girls lip-synched to “How Much is That Doggie in the Window” for Talent Night. I was given the part of The Doggie; my lines, “Ruff Ruff.” As I crawled onstage on all fours, the camp owners’ terrier, Sporty, dashed in out of nowhere and mounted me from behind, clinging and humping while I tried to scurry away.

The whole thing was a spontaneous hit. All the grownups howled.

The second time, I went with my parents for a visit to some new neighbors. We were all in the parlor having soft drinks when I heard a dog whining in the basement. René, their French Poodle, our hosts explained, wasn’t allowed to greet guests. I begged to meet their pet, not understanding their protestations. How could a French Poodle, the popular image on everyone’s swing skirt (second only to the Eiffel Tower) and the inspiration for the Poodle Cut hairdo, be a problem?

Finally the neighbors gave in and opened the basement door.  René bounded up the stairs and made a bee line for me, knocking me to the floor for some frenzied humping. While his owners scolded and tried to restrain him, I scrambled behind the sofa. René broke loose and attempted to leap over the sofa before he was caught and again exiled to the basement. René had the full poodle coiffure but his pompom ears and tail made him even more sinister.

These brief encounters, what did they mean? What was their lasting significance in my life? As I matured, and began the search for love, each Knight in my life eventually revealed his inner Fido, your basic male Homo sapiens, a pronate in search of a supinate. 

Feminism arrived, and it became normal for lovers to assume either, or both, or some variation on the classic roles and postures. But I couldn’t figure out what this acute form of attention really had to do with love. My first taste of one of life’s eternal conundrums.

What do we know that a dog doesn’t know? Aristophanes, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Woody Allen: they don’t know. But they know the question is great material. Love. Lust.

Permutations.

 Are infinite.