Enough

This was written the spring before I was finally diagnosed with Parkinson's.  The meds help so much that most days I have many normal hours.

“Enough”

This morning I lay in bed, trying to get up the courage to get up. I was feeling sorry for myself and began to think of all the things I had lost and the every day activities that are now so difficult, if not impossible, to do. I dreaded finding clothes for today, I could tell my arms would be too weak to pull up the loosest of pants and my fingers too shaky to button or zip. I thought about how I used to sew, knit and design clothing, things I now struggle to teach my children. I began to remember me, as I used to be.

I used to be an artist, drawing, painting, creating, now I have to try to find the words to tell others how to do the simplest of crafts. I was the “Craft Lady”; I loved showing others how to make something beautiful. Now I may be able to prepare but must rely on others to teach and help with the projects. The tremor has taken my talent.

I used to be proud of my handwriting; forming letters was a joy and an expression of beauty. Now neither the paper nor the pen will hold still and the words are barely legible, and writing a check or signing the receipt in a store is embarrassing. The tremor has taken both my words and my pride.

I used to be a long distance runner. I loved to hike and explore. I dreamed of the day we could go exploring as a family. Now I think about each step, telling my left leg to pick up and put down, pick up, put down, making even the briefest of walks mentally and physically exhausting. The tremor has taken my mobility and sense of adventure.

I used to make music, playing the piano and organ for church, and singing for the Lord. Now my hands hit all the wrong notes and singing causes such violent tremors my muscles cramp and I am in agony. The tremor has taken my song.

I used to be able to lift 90-pound bales of hay, work beside my husband and pull a kid, the goat kind. Now carrying a water glass or lifting a shovel full of dirt is a struggle. The tremor has taken my strength.

I used to be a teacher and I enjoyed talking with friends for hours (and we had the phone bills to prove it). Now I shake so violently that carrying on the simplest conversation is difficult, just holding still requires all my concentration so the words don‘t come, and my daughter must hold the phone for me. The tremor has taken my voice.

I used to be self-sufficient, independent, and opinionated (ok, I am still opinionated). I could drive a semi-truck, carry my own plate and go where I pleased, when I wanted, and hit a target dead on. Now I drive only on good days, others fetch what they think I would like to eat, and would you want to go target shooting with me? The tremor has robbed my independence.

And in that moment, as I lay there feeling discouraged and alone, I cried out, “Father, What do I have left?”

Softly came the answer, “My child, You have Me.

My strength is made perfect in your weakness.
My song is made new every morning, listen to it in the voices of your children.
My words are eternal and yours.
My grace IS sufficient for even your darkest days.
My love surrounds you, feel it in the love of your family.
You have Me.”

Then my heart cried out, “Abba, YOU are enough.”

Cheryl Eggers, Old Sawmill Homestead, Nemo, SD, May 2011