Most of my friends and family remember me pestering them to watch Heather’s startlingly informative and elegant video A Mountain at my Gate ..
.. and how it inspired me to try and look beyond my own diagnosis, believing I too might yet have some goals left to achieve, albeit of course that once you’re plucked away from the rat race and the daily cares and worries of most – because you’ve been reeling for a couple of years, trying to come to terms with this crappy card some creepy cosmic croupier has dealt you – in clear bold letters framing that famous Big Picture view offered to those who haven’t sailed through life unscathed, to put it mildly, is the message that whatever you choose to do while you see your time running out, better had be about something more than merely making sure you yourself are comfortable.
To me, that’s no longer a satisfactory definition of living. It has to be about contributing, doing something out there for others, for new frantic and frazzled sufferers, as well as their carers, husbands and wives, partners, families and friends.. And of course, I still have a bone to pick the size of the part of Uluru you can’t see around that ole Satan called Sifrol.
But I am starting to doubt I will ever find a way to deal with its wholly sinister and nefarious repercussions myself, let alone be in a position to really help anyone else, apart from jumping on PD fora and watching out for those “Hi guys, my husband/wife/whatever’s been prescribed Sifrol. Any thoughts?” shockers. Which is when I come swooping down like a wrecking ball shapeshifter, “Thoughts? Yep, like regrets, I’ve had a few ..”
In short, I was impressed how in that 5-minute clip, Heather often without any words at all, answered some of my posse’s earnest questions better, more coherently than I, Senor Chatterbox could ever hope to do. For me, the 2-second bit where she fumbles with the belt loops on her jeans and those bloody bloody belts that never ever fit properly, got me right in the smacker when I saw it first.
Now, year 5 since diagnosis, I still haven’t got around to investing in a solid hole punch, a perennial problem my Tiffany fixed for me in five minutes flat, in the wink of an eye ..
But these things also become more and more tiresome for us PD Pilgrims ourselves. What I can do now and how I manage to do it won’t be a stable situation for any foreseeable time. What I mean is, the only thing we know about this freaky-deaky thing is, it ain’t gonna get better.
That’s not being negative, it’s being realistic. I think the most insulting thing anyone can do is pretend to know better than the person standing stammering and shaking in front of you..
I almost caught up with Heather during my last telco journo jaunt to Silicon Valley but the demi-gods of travel logistics and UB40 hit single based domestic calamities stood in our way.
However, I must ask her about this brazen gal doing a bit of a dance about Comtan. (The Comtan Ladies sing this song, Dopa! Dopa!)
That, then, of course reminds me of this little piece of knowing film satire:
But anyway, about that medical jazzercise dame? Hmmm ..
Must be a relative of Heather’s staying with her or something .. no surprise though, that I do sort of like the cut of her gib.