Birthday Presence

Earlier this year, for the first time in my life, I celebrated my birthday without the woman who birthed me.  

No hug. No kiss. No early morning phone call with a beautifully strained rendition of the birthday song. 

Today is my mom’s birthday, the first since she passed.  No birthday dinner at Salute. No crème brulee with “Happy 79^th Birthday!” written on it for dessert.

But I will have dinner with my dad tonight. And on my birthday, I received an early morning call from my dad and my aunt Jane. They both gave a strained rendition of the birthday song. It wasn’t easy on  the ears, but it made a tough day a lot easier. I am lucky to have them.

Someone else was there on my birthday and will be there tonight.

My wife, Amy. I don’t know what I would do without her. (Sometimes cliches are the best way to express a truth.) Sure, I would go on, I would live; but it would have been in a deep, dark hole.  

Her birthday was two days ago. I always thought it was interesting and maybe a little weird but also very meaningful that my mother and my wife had birthdays so close together. I believe in the power of symbols and symbolism. I didn’t know what it meant, but it meant something. I don’t believe in Zodiac signs and the accompanying personal attributes, but I don’t dismiss them entirely because what the hell do I know? Maybe there’s something to it. The time of the year in which we are born probably has some impact on who we are, and there are a lot of similarities between my mother and my wife. My mother was an educator in an urban district. My wife is an educator in an urban district. My mother and wife spent most of their lives in Connecticut. They were both raised Catholic. They both love animals and traveling and reading and watching tv/movies. They are both generous and loving. The list is long. 

I think that our parents, for better or worse, have an enormous impact on who we are, but also on who we seek as partners. One of the things that I appreciate most about my wife is that she’s willing to tell me things I may not want to hear. I may not necessarily appreciate it in the moment, but eventually I come to accept the wisdom shared and the courage needed to share it. It’s hard to tell the person you love something that may upset them or challenge them. But true love requires it at times. Blind, unquestioning support isn’t true love. Good mothers know that. My mother knew that. She had to tell me things I didn’t want to hear quite often, actually. Sometimes it took me a long time, years even, to appreciate what she said. There were times when she maybe could have said it in a different way, but she was a high school teacher in Hartford raising two boys, so her approach was generally tough and direct. Sometimes I responded defensively.

How we treat our partners and how a parent treats a child will (should) differ, so my wife has a different approach with me. Also, she worked with pre-schoolers, and in general her approach is more sensitive and patient. Of course, sometimes I respond defensively with that approach, too, so clearly the problem is me. But regardless of the approach, the fact is, my mother and my wife are willing to tell it like it is. To tell me like it is.

When she was about 70 years old, my mom had surgery and she needed a wheelchair afterwards. This was a huge shift in her life. At the time, I just knew that she would never walk again. Most people, including my mom, probably knew that, too, but she desperately wanted to believe she would. She expressed that hope for years afterwards. It never happened. My pessimism won out. How smart of me. Clearly, the lesson there was to always be pessimistic.

Although I had certainly experienced many moments of sadness and melancholy regarding my mom’s condition ever since she told me she had Parkinson’s when I was 16, this was a turning point. For so many years, the main symptoms of Parkinson’s were trembling and stiffness, hardly noticeable for the most part. Around the time she turned 70, she was still walking, and cooking family meals, but she was bent over almost 90 degrees and moving very slowly. It was now obvious that she had a degenerative disease. That word “degenerative” was starting to really sink in.

Probably the worst part of growing up is watching age take its toll on your parents. It was very difficult to see my mom in a wheelchair, with the feeling/knowledge that she wouldn’t walk again. Also, at this point in her life, any time she’d have surgery or some medical incident that required a hospital stay, her Parkinson’s medications would be out of whack, which would cause a variety of negative effects to her mental and physical condition. There were moments where she was so far removed from the person I knew that my brain could hardly process it. I also think this was when she started suffering from depression, or it was already there and it went to the next level.

When my mom was home, Amy and I visited for dinner about every other week. Through childhood and high school, I considered my relationship with my parents to be very close, but I was never much in the way of extensive conversations with them. I was the typical teen boy, sitting at the dinner table, shoving food down my mouth as quickly as possible, and answering my mom’s questions with “yeah”. After I graduated college and eventually moved out of their house, even though we saw each other less, we became closer. Maybe because we saw each other less? Anyways, our conversations were a little more robust.

But as my mom’s condition worsened, the dinner conversations at my parents’ house became more difficult for me. It was as if I had reverted to my teen self. Withdrawn. Sullen. I wanted to be there with them, with her. I needed to be there, but it was difficult.

One time when she was still in the hospital or nursing home, we celebrated her birthday, or one of my niece’s birthdays. I’m feeling the effects of aging, too, so I can’t remember exactly, but the whole family was there. We had pizza and cake at the lounge area. At one point, I got up from the table, and my mom said something to Amy about “cheering me up” or something like that. She’s in a wheelchair with a progressive neurological disease, worried about me. She could tell how I was feeling, how down I was. I didn’t want to feel that way, but I couldn’t help it. And for several months, probably longer, dinners with my mom were mostly quiet. On my end at least. Amy and my parents would talk. I didn’t realize it at the time, lost in my thoughts, but I’m sure it was awkward for everyone. And I’m sure it hurt my mom to some degree.  

Sometimes with sadness, a lot of the actual emotion is self-pity. Not all the time, not even most of the time for most people, but some of the time. Even then, it’s not necessarily the dominant emotion, but it’s there, especially with the sadness that comes with seeing a loved one who is ill or dying. You lost or are losing someone you care for, and part of you can’t help but ask, “Why is this happening to me? Why is my mother dying? Why do I have to experience this pain?” Then there’s the guilt from feeling that way.

Grief is a son of a bitch.

Watching my mother suffer (quietly, never complaining) and her body deteriorate was torturous. In her presence, it was about all I could think about and I never knew what to say.

After a while of uncomfortable dinners, Amy finally addressed my near silence. She brought it up gently, saying something like I noticed you haven’t been saying much at dinners with your mom. I responded with something like, “that’s just our relationship,” and referenced my teen years. I tried to make it seem like not talking actually showed how strong our relationship was. I didn’t need to say anything, she knew how I felt. She knew how much I loved her. And maybe that was true. But it didn’t make the situation better. It didn’t make my mom, or me, happy. I think Amy brought it up a few times, and my response was always the same. I didn’t want to change anything. I didn’t think I needed to. She just didn’t understand.

Then she finally said, well, I think your mom would appreciate if you talked more. And I think it will help you. You don’t want to look back and regret not making the most out of these moments. You should try to be more present.  

Even after that, I was still stuck in my head for a while. I couldn’t help thinking about how much my mom had been through and that she would be gone soon. I didn’t know how to break through that thought process. I also wanted to inexplicably hang on to this idea that nobody knew my relationship with my mom better than I did and nobody could tell me how to interact with my mom.

But I also realized that Amy was saying all this out of love. She knew how I was suffering, even if I wouldn’t say it. She didn’t want me to live with the regret of not fully appreciating the moments I had with my mom. And I realized how difficult it must have been to say all that to me. Would I have been able to say the same thing to her if our positions were reversed? I hope so. Looking at it from that angle helped me finally see.

Living in the moment often requires blocking out the pain of the future. For so much of my life, I would always think of the inevitable end of something. So I maintained what I considered a healthy distance from everything. Sure, my team is winning, but they're going to eventually lose, so why care? (I'm sure that being a fan of the Dolphins and the Mets had something to do with that way of thinking, too.) Why give my all to a relationship when it’s just going to end eventually? Everything good will end, everyone will die. That is undoubtedly true. But so what? The future is not more important than the present. Bad things will happen, sure. But why experience the pain before it happens? Why mourn the living? I thought that way of thinking made me superior, it freed my mind. I could see through the bullshit, not like all of those ignorant, happy people! But in fact, it was a mentality that restricted rather than liberated. It denied the importance and the value of the present, when the present is all we have.

Your loved ones will die. It is a fact. But the pain of that loss will be there, waiting. You don’t need rush towards it. You don't need to focus on it while they’re still alive. There will be plenty of time to mourn.

Slowly but surely, I was more present at our dinners. I engaged in conversation. Making my mom laugh was a joy I hadn’t known in a while, and it became sort of a mission. I didn’t always succeed, and there were plenty of moments of sadness, but I didn’t let those moments overwhelm me and interfere with the connection I had with my mom.

I would never have been able to get through the sadness and self-pity to connect with my mom in her final years by myself. I would probably have never even thought I needed to. But I did need to. And I needed my wife, the love of my life, to tell me.

My mom spoke at my dad’s mother’s funeral. She thanked my grandmother, E-Mommy, for “teaching the man I love how to love.” That line broke me and completely ruined my own speech, which immediately followed hers (thanks, mom!) but it always stuck with me.

My mom taught me how to love, but my wife taught me how to love my mom when she needed it most. She taught me, or reminded me, the importance of being present, not just being “there,” for those we love.

I hope I have the courage and strength to say what needs to be said when it’s difficult and needed most. I hope to always be present for her.

I hope I am the man my parents taught me to be.

I love you, Amy. 

I love you, Mom.

Two Angels, Mom and Nola. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 
 

Eulogy for Mom

Funeral for Marie Farr Elterich

Friday, March 8, 2024

St. Mark The Evangelist Church, West Hartford, CT

In honor of my mom, please consider donating to the Michael J. Fox Foundation.

Eulogy by Geoff Elterich

Well this was one way to get me back in church, Mom...

Strength. Everyone talked about how strong my mother was. And everyone is right. I just wish she didn’t have to be so strong. She went through so much, even before she had Parkinson's. She was a Special Ed teacher, in Hartford, in the 80s and 90s. That’s tough. Then she fought Parkinson's for 27 years. Among other things. I had totally forgotten that she had breast cancer at one point. Around the same time, she had major surgery on her spine. Then later in that same year, she basically died.

But she came back. Miracle Marie.

 
And almost as soon as she got home, after being in a coma then being in the hospital for over a month, she wanted to go out to eat at the Corner Pug, because she wasn’t gonna let this thing make her miss out on living. Her life was not going to be defined by her illness. So we took her out. I was terrified the whole time, thinking something bad was gonna happen, but she just went along like no big deal. That’s how she was. It wasn’t good enough to just be alive, she wanted to keep living, and she wasn’t gonna let anything stop her. She wanted to make the most of her time here, doing the things she loved. Spending time with her family and friends. 

Her life, especially the last 7 years or so was really tough on a daily basis, but there were great moments, and that’s what living is about, creating and experiencing those moments that live on and make everything else worth it.
 
When a lot of people think of someone who is strong they often think of someone who doesn’t show emotions. But if you know my mom, you know that is far from the truth. She cried. A lot. She embraced her emotions, and that made her stronger.
 
And of course, my dad made her stronger. Ken. The Rock. The most beautiful yet saddest thing I've seen in my life is their relationship. That’s the paradox of life though, right? Beauty and cruelty both coexisting. But through it all they had each other.
 
And it wasn’t just my dad. My aunt Jane, Bob and Diana, Mike, our cousins. Our family is strength. and beyond that she had such a strong community behind her. You can really tell a lot about somebody by their friends, and her friends are so amazing. I know it was not easy at times to see her going through it. but friends visited the hospital, at home, took her out to eat or to a play. her friends still showed up. And that meant the world to me and the world to her and my dad.
 
She always wanted to create moments with the ones she loved. Moments to remember, moments to bond with each other. Hosting parties for family and friends, Birthday parties for me and mike, later for her granddaughters, who meant the world to her. Holidays, we all know how much she liked Christmas. Some might say a little too much. The santa figurines. The singing toys. Dad maybe we can get rid of all the singing toys now? 
 
My mom loved traveling, camping, going to the beach, creating moments.
 
She also loved quiet moments. She taught me the love of a good book and a cat on your lap. She taught me so much. She taught me how to teach, and how to advocate for students.
 
And almost a year ago to this day, she was at my wedding. Thanks for the anniversary gift mom. Gotta make it about her right?!? I know she was so happy the whole year leading up to it, and then she was crying through the whole thing. Tears of joy of course. Because she knew I was in good hands. And our mother son dance...I'm just so happy I got to create that moment for her because she created so many for me.
 
Mom. Mother. Wife. Sister. Daughter. Grandmother. Aunt. Teacher. Friend. Den mother. Leader. Fighter. Horrible singer. Let’s be real here. I can say it because I'm her son. But that didn’t stop her did it? She loved it. She once told me when it comes to singing “whatever you do, sing loud. May not be good. But they’ll hear you. And you'll know you gave it your best.” It took me a while to understand that, and to appreciate it. I couldn't help but to eventually admire it. 

But yeah, as a kid, Mom singing was the worst thing that could happen. But she loved it and wasn’t gonna let anyone stop her. She'd even force you to sing with her. She wanted to tap in to that communal spirit. Christmas carols around the block, songs before Christmas dinner. 

And the cruel irony is, when the Parkinson's got worse, it took her voice, it took her singing away. And as much as I hated her singing for so long, especially when she did it to wake me up for school, these last few years I wanted nothing more than to hear her sing again. So it goes.

 
And so to honor her legacy, I wanted to give her one last sing along. One last moment with my mom that can live on within all of us. This is one of her favorite songs and she wanted it sung at her funeral so, here you go mom. Will the Circle Be Unbroken.
 
I'm gonna do my best, so bear with me, but thankfully I have my rock, my strength. Another thing mom taught me was to choose your friends and your partner well. I think I did. Just so happens she's a teacher, and her birthday is two days apart from my mom's.
 
So we're gonna start it off and try to set the melody and pace, and I'd love it if you could all join in. Nice and loud so Mom can hear you.

Will the Circle Be Unbroken
 
I was standing by my window
On one cold and cloudy day
When I saw that hearse come rolling
For to carry my mother away

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

I said to that undertaker
Undertaker please drive slow
For this lady you are carrying
Lord, I hate to see her go

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

Oh, I followed close behind her
Tried to hold up and be brave
But I could not hide my sorrow
When they laid her in the grave

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. Bye, Mom. 

The Many Faces of Heroism

Superhero movies have become a dominant fixture of American culture in the past 20 years. As the world makes less and less sense, and as the dangers in the world take on more and more complex forms, we tend to look for simple solutions and heroes who can punch the evil away. Iron Man can defeat terrorists and aliens with his incredible technology! Captain America can defeat Nazis and aliens with his pure heart, incredible courage, and steroids! The Hulk can smash evil Norse gods and aliens with his bare hands! If only life were so simple. At least we don't have aliens. 

Instead, we have invisible viruses. We have degenerative diseases. We have systemic racism. And although our technology has reached an almost miraculous level, we haven’t found the solution to these problems, and no matter how much we hope for it, the Hulk isn’t coming to smash them away. 

In real life, heroism doesn’t look like The Avengers. Sure, sometimes a person does a heroic act like pulling a baby out of a burning building or taking down a mass shooter before he can kill more. But for the most part, in real life, heroic acts are smaller gestures that express the beauty and the intense goodness that exist within life all around us, coexisting with all the ugliness and negativity. Extending a helping hand, supporting a friend in need, speaking out for those with no voice, pushing on in the face of adversity. These heroic acts often aren’t considered heroic. Maybe they aren't equivalent to saving the entire planet from destruction, but they are real, human moments of heroism in the face of the most uncaring, inescapable, undefeated villain the real world has to offer: death.

Unfortunately, that villain got its sickly paws on Chadwick Boseman, who became a literal superhero, the Black Panther, and helped ignite a worldwide phenomenon. All while battling colon cancer. It is almost inconceivable to think of what he accomplished after getting the diagnosis, receiving chemo treatments, and ultimately knowing he would soon die. 

It’s honestly so inconceivable that it moves beyond inspirational. Nobody should feel like they need to accomplish so much while going through something like that. It's ok to rest! The fact that he did what he did is commendable and amazing, but too often we use the unique, incredible accomplishments of one person to shame others. If he was the Black Panther and made Avengers Infinity War and End Game and did all the red carpet appearances and interviews and met with sick kids and loved his family and gave black people around the world a moment of happiness and gave black children representation in an area where it was severely lacking, all while fighting cancer...HOW DARE YOU TAKE A DAY OFF FROM WORK BECAUSE YOU’VE GOT THE SNIFFLES! How dare you feel sorry for yourself even for one second just because you have a disease or disability! 

As a culture and society, we feel pressure to not only praise this great man for doing great things in the face of adversity, we have to use his death as a lesson. We often call people living with deadly diseases "heroes," and rightly so, but sometimes it seems like that we do it just to make ourselves feel better. To ease our own fears. We don’t want cancer, so someone who has it and perseveres is a hero. But we don’t truly consider what that means or what that person is actually going through. They're not even their own person anymore, they become a character in a story. They’re not a regular person with everyday issues and fears: they are CANCER WARRIORS! 

There is good intent behind this characterization. People fighting cancer are fighting a heroic battle, to save their very lives. They should be praised. But this characterization can dehumanize people, or glorify people at the expense of others. This person won his battle against cancer! Well, this other person lost his battle against cancer. Does that mean one was stronger than the other? Did one simply fight harder? Maybe both fought equally as hard, but one had better treatment. Maybe the one who died actually fought harder. Maybe it was all just pure, shitty luck. 

Chadwick Boseman didn't "lose" a battle against cancer. He died from a horrible disease. And before that, he lived as well as he could. But not everyone can do what Chadwick Boseman did--embody the literal role of a superhero and inspire millions of people across the globe while fighting cancer--and they shouldn't feel bad about it. Courage looks different on each person depending on their circumstances. Heroism looks different on different people. For some people, simply getting out of the house is heroic. 

Recently, my mom went into the hospital. She’s been in and out (mostly out, thankfully) for the past 2.5 years. Parkinson's and Parkinson's related dementia has taken its toll on her (and us) but once again, it has not broken her. After being in there for about a week, with no visitors allowed, she came home and was ready to live. It was her 75th birthday a few days after she got home, and she insisted on going out to eat. Every time she has gotten out of the hospital, she has wanted to go out soon after. She is more willing and less hesitant than me. I can't help thinking of everything that can go wrong, whether it’s a good idea, what about Covid or this or that…but she's adamant. She wants to go out. So we put our masks on and ate on an outside patio.

Through it all, she hasn’t given up on life. There are probably moments when she wants to. Just like in the superhero movies, there's always a moment when the hero is ready to call it quits. They are defeated. They are exhausted. Batman retires and hangs up the cape. The Black Panther gets tossed over a cliff and falls into a coma.

There are moments when we all want to give up. And some people do. That's not a sign of weakness. There's only so much pain and anguish one can bear. Honestly, sometimes giving up is a rational response. 

And that’s exactly why not giving up is so heroic. Life is fucking hard! Those who keep going in the face of adversity and death are so admirable because it's not a logical, rational response. You're going to die anyways, why fight it? 

Because what else is there? Life is fighting death. That’s the whole thing! 

In Boseman's situation, a rational response to finding out he had colon cancer would have been to stop working. Stop visiting sick kids. Stop doing talk shows and meeting fans. At the very least, tell people why you’re losing weight and looking frail so you don't get attacked on social media! Instead, he just took it all upon himself. He didn’t want people feeling sorry for him, or just didn’t want the parasitic entertainment industry sucking his life dry for “heartwarming” interviews. Maybe he was just a private person, but I truly think he understood that he had become a symbol, and he wanted to represent a sense of power and nobility and grace, and joy, without the element of pity. 

People thought he looked tired doing the Wakanda Forever pose for everyone who requested it, but maybe that was the only thing keeping him going. 

He didn’t ask for pity or praise for dealing with his sickness. My mom never has, either. (My dad hasn't either, for that matter, and what he does on the daily basis is heroic, too.) All she wants is to feel normal. To live her life without the crushing weight of her disease, even for a few moments. 

So she asked us to take her out to dinner.

And yes, in the face of Parkinson’s and dementia and Covid, that is heroic as hell. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Fifty Years, One Reason

When my mom came home from the hospital earlier this year, she was frustrated with her slow recovery. One night when I visited, she was in the den, looking at the computer and crying. My mother has always exuded strength, so the few times I've seen her cry have been devastating.

I asked her what was wrong and she told me she couldn't remember how the computer or any of the other technology worked. She felt dumb. Thankfully I was sitting because a sense of sadness and fear nearly knocked me over. Deep in my soul, I felt her frustration at realizing that her cognitive skills were impaired. It is literally my biggest fear (recognizing your own loss of cognizance with no power to stop it) and my mom was experiencing it in front of me. It still haunts me. It was one of the most heartbreaking things anyone has ever said to me. I always knew losing a parent would be hard, and I dread the moment it happens, but I never realized how difficult it would be just to see them getting old. Even though she had expressed to me many times in the hospital how much she loved and appreciated my Dad for being there (along with other family members and friends) in that moment, she seemed so alone. It really hit me that although the whole family was going through a tough time, she was the only one physically going through it.

So I did my best to let her know that she's not alone and that she's not dumb, she's just still recovering. Overcoming my own desire to curl up in a fetal position and cry, I told her she had come so far in a short time, and that considering how much she had been through, it was amazing she was even here.

She thanked me and then said something else that truly melted me. She said that when she was in the hospital, thinking of me and my brother gave her the will to live and was the only thing that got her through it all.

I've always felt loved by my parents. They have gone out of their way to support me my entire life. But until that moment, I don't think I ever realized how much my brother and I really mean to them. When she talked in the hospital, it was usually a mix of hallucinations and memories. The constant was that she talked about me and my brother. There was confusion some times (she often talked about me on the swim team, but that was Mike) but it was clear we were on her mind. She didn't simply love us, she lived for us.

When she came home, she improved a bit, only to relapse and go back into the hospital and nursing home for a couple weeks. There were a few days where she was almost completely unresponsive. I was sure that it was the end. And yet, her condition improved again, and she came home again. Since she came home that second time, she has continually gotten better and stronger. She is incredible. Her strength is unbelievable.

And yet, I don't know if she would've made it without my Dad. Thinking of me and my brother may have helped her get through emotionally, but my Dad has been the physical embodiment of love and support. I don't want to romanticize a very difficult time, because there were moments when they were both extremely frustrated and tired and upset, but I've learned more about love and family in this past year than my entire life.

My parents have been through a lot since they got married in 1968, and this past year, their 50th together, may have been the toughest. Many people say "I'd do anything for you," but how many really mean it. Will they go to the hospital or nursing home for hours every day, week after week? Will they help their partner go to the bathroom and eat and get dressed every day?

Through my parents, I have witnessed and felt real, deep, enduring love. Sometimes it's intimidating because I don't know if I'm capable of it; at the same time, it is illuminating and inspiring. I'm lucky to have an amazing partner in my life and I can only aspire to give her as much love and support as my parents have given to me and to each other. 

Last year around this time my mom was getting surgery on her spine. She was still walking then. At the time, I couldn't help but focus on the unpleasant possibilities. I was scared and knew it would be a tough recovery. I had no idea how rough it would get. She hasn't walked since. 

6 months later, when I wrote A Coma for Christmas, I was even deeper into negative thoughts. However, seeing my mom fighting to recover forced me to overcome that negativity. I tried to end the poem on somewhat of a positive note; I thought if I put it out in the public, maybe it would sink in privately. I honestly didn't share the subdued optimism that I expressed in the poem. In fact, I was hesitant to publish it because I thought it was too hopeful and I was sure something horrible was going to happen once I pressed the "Publish" button. And then a few weeks later she was back in the hospital and I took it as proof that I should never have any optimism whatsoever.

But she's still here. She's still her. And for half a century, my Dad has been the rock beside her.  

One of my tattoos states "The struggle is the blessing." It's not always easy to remember that, but it's a vital truth. Life is struggle. It's amazing anybody gets through the day. But this life is all we have, and we need to find a reason to keep fighting, to keep struggling. 

My parents have shown me that love is the most powerful reason.

Happy 50th Anniversary Mom and Dad. Your love is one for the ages. Thank you. I love you.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

A Coma for Christmas

A coma for Christmas
No hope for the New Year
A mom in the hospital
A son's greatest fear

Time comes for us all
That's no surprise
But that knowledge means nothing
When she can't open her eyes

Machines give her breath
When her body can not
Doctors, nurses, robots
The only chance that she's got

They say she can hear me
I don't know if it's true
Besides, don't they know
I just want to hear you?

Just talking or singing
Or laughing with cheer
I'll take you yelling at me
Just as long as you're here

Two long days later
No tube for your breath
Your eyes start to open
You will not take her, Death.

A few days later
You're awake, you're talking!
You've seen the other side
And told Death to keep walking

Yet death is just one
Of many possibilities
What is life without cognizance
Without control
With senility?

It could be the meds
Or it could be confusion
A temporary adjustment
Or permanent delusion

Sometimes you're right here
Sometimes you're in the past
Sometimes you're in your own land
How long will this last?

I want to be happy
That you are alive
I want to smile and be strong
To see you survive

But the problem is,
The fact of the matter,
Is that my heart is ripped out
Stomped on
Shattered

I'm barely holding it together
Because this is my worst fear
To see you living
But not really here

But each day there's progress
Not much, but its true
Because nobody on this planet
Is tougher than you

Except maybe Dad
I've never seen such love
He's got me believing
In angels from above

A tender kiss on the hand
A whisper in her ear
A gentle rub on the shoulder
To let her know that he's near

He's been through so much
But damned if he'll show it
Yet it takes a huge toll
And we all surely know it

Because we all feel it, too.

It's the saddest thing
That I've ever been through
A step forward one day,
The next?
Step back two

The one saving grace,
For which I'm so thankful
The strength of my family
And the friends in my circle

I can't imagine my life
Without those around me
The sadness and pain
Would honestly drown me

Her friends are there, too
It's amazing to see
The love that's been shown
Is overwhelming to me

One moment I'm inspired
The next crippled by fear
The one thing I know
I'm glad she's still here

Some days she's her self
Funny, caring and smart
Some days she's...not
And it just breaks my heart

But she's coming home soon
We're thankful for that
She'll be in her element
With Dad, the dog, the new cat

For 20 plus years
She's battled a disease
That eats at her brain
And there's only one release

But she's not going down
Without fighting like crazy
I hope I have the courage
When the time comes for me

I love you Mom
I love you Dad
I love you friends
I love you family
These are not just words
It's the truth that defines me.


I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

The Parents

The year was 1968...

North Vietnam launches the Tet offensive, the beginning of the end for the US in Vietnam. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy are assassinated. Apollo 8 becomes the first manned spacecraft to orbit the moon.

And possibly the most important event of all: the union of Ken Elterich and Marie Farr. 

Although this event went largely unnoticed by the general public, it set off a chain of events that would change world history, most notably, 12 years later when their youngest son was born.

Hello.

I grew up extremely privileged. I don’t necessarily mean economically, although my family was firmly in the middle class and I never really wanted for anything. The biggest privilege in my life, beyond a financial safety net that I can still rely on if necessary, is that I never had to look far for role models. I didn’t have to figure out how to treat others or respect myself, I didn’t have to be told by frustrated employers how to work hard, and I didn’t have to learn how to take pleasure in the joys of life; I was shown all of that from day one. Even before I knew what a role model was, I was provided with two incredible models of virtue.

Growing up I always considered my mom and dad as one unit: “The Parents.” That was the entirety of their identity to me. That is probably typical for kids, but it also reflected their relationship. They had their own interests and participated in separate activities (golf for my dad, ceramics for my mom, etc.) yet they acted as one when it came to everything else. They were a unified force, which didn’t exactly help me whenever I messed up. I knew I was dealing with the tag team. There was no playing one against the other. My only hope was to try to put some of the blame on my brother.

As I got older, I appreciated them more as individuals. My mom the teacher, my dad the…well, whatever he did for work (Joking. Kinda.) Beyond being a good employee/boss, he was also a coach and a good friend. Both of my parents were good friends, not just to each other, but to many people. That is one of the things I’m most grateful for: learning how to treat people.

When I was a senior in high school, I agreed to go to my friend’s prom with his girlfriend’s best friend. A week later, I started dating someone. I wanted out of my friend’s prom. My mom, without forcing a decision on me, told me that it would not be right to back out of a promise I made just because “something better came along.” She didn’t lecture me, she just said how it would make the other girl feel (I knew she was onto something when my girlfriend actually understood as I explained why I was going to prom with someone else). My mom was good at instilling guilt. In fact, both of my parents were. When I got in trouble, they always said they weren't mad, just disappointed. Ugh. How could I express righteous indignation at their treatment of me if they didn’t get mad? If they yelled and screamed, I could’ve just raged against them and felt better about myself because obviously I didn’t deserve their anger. But disappointment? There’s no response to that, except to do better.

Obviously, as a teen, there were times when I wasn’t too fond of my parent’s decisions, like moving to West Hartford, but ultimately I recognized that every decision was made in the best interest of me, my brother, and/or the whole family. I clearly got a better education in West Hartford than I would have in Hartford.

Besides the typical teen angst, though, I always saw my parents as infallible. I may have acted as if I didn't want to hear what they had to say, but that's because I knew they were right about whatever they were telling me and I would have to change my behavior.

They always did the right thing. They always seemed to be on the right side of any social issues. They traveled and worked and spent quality time with family and friends. They lived life, and continue to live it, how it is supposed to be lived.

When my mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I couldn’t accept that my mom was going to be affected by this horrible disease. Not her. Not the woman who spent her life teaching special education in the inner city in the 90s. She didn't deserve this, and she was too strong for this. My grandmother had a friend who had Parkinson’s and I just couldn’t imagine her as frail as he was. I was scared, and I think I’ve been scared ever since.

But not her. At least, not on the surface. It's like nothing changed. She’s been on more vacations this year than I’ve been on this decade. She is too strong for this.

And my dad has been right there with her. I don’t know how he does it. I don’t think I could do it. I can barely handle it as is. I am overwhelmed by their strength.

49 years later, they are stronger than ever, as a couple and as individuals.

It's inspiring. And a little upsetting, too, because seriously? How can I live up to that? Come on.

My mom just got surgery on her spine. For the first time possibly ever, she admitted to being in a lot of pain. And for the first time definitely ever, she seemed scared. Maybe I’m projecting. Probably.

Despite any reservations, she went ahead with the surgery. A friend told her she was courageous, and she just replied, “It’s not courage, I just want the pain to go away.” She’d never acknowledge that she is extraordinary, because to her, her actions are ordinary. There’s a problem, it needs to be solved. That’s how she, and my father, have always been. There’s nothing else to do but deal with it.

What's the other option? Be crippled by pain? Curl up and die? No. Handle it. Get the surgery to fix the back. Take the experimental Parkinson's medicine that may not even help you but might make a breakthrough that could help thousands of others. Fear is just another emotion like happiness. It’s okay to be afraid, just don't let it stop you from moving forward.

I write this knowing full well that I’m afraid and not dealing with it very well. But sometimes faking it till you make it is the best thing you can do. Worrying doesn't accomplish anything. Things will happen or they won't. Move forward.

49 years together. More than a decade longer than I've been alive. The Parents. Mr. and Mrs. Incredible, except their only superpower is love. 

UPDATE 6/27/17, 5:55pm: My mom is in Recovery and doing well.

I Love You All, Especially "The Parents"...Class Dismissed.

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings

My mom is going to have surgery and radiation to remove cancer from her breast tomorrow. The procedure will be done at St. Francis Hospital in Hartford, the hospital in which I was born. I don't want to think of the cruel irony that could possibly play out.

Yet here I am, thinking about it.

Her older sister has battled breast cancer twice, the first time when she was in her 50s. My mom considers herself lucky because she didn't get it until her 70s. Yeah, besides that whole Parkinson's thing for the last 20 years, pretty lucky!

My mom doesn't want and never asks for pity or sorrow, and I certainly won't. That's not what this is about. When I write about my mom, it's never about that. It's more about taking every opportunity to discuss and talk about the love and admiration I have for her. I didn't vocally express my love for my parents for a long time, and I want to make sure to do that as much as possible now.

And sometimes I simply need to vent about the constant shit that the universe rains down on good people, over and over. My mom's Parkinson's diagnosis 20 years ago contributed to my loss of faith and belief in God; the last 20 years has provided a daily reminder that there is no all-knowing, all-seeing, compassionate, omnipresent being. Her latest diagnosis assures me that even if there were a god, he/she/it is a fucking twisted asshole.

One of the things that gets me, besides the general cruelty of putting such a caring, giving, kind woman through all of this, is that she still goes to church. For me, her Parkinson's and cancer are clear evidence that god doesn't exist, or at the very least, that god doesn''t care about anyone. I realize I'm just projecting my thoughts and beliefs on her; maybe my closeness to the situation is not letting me see any other perspective. I also realize that for some people, these obstacles or challenges or shitty situations make their faith even stronger. I don't personally get that, but I know it happens, and I respect it. One could argue that she has lived a relatively healthy life since her Parkinson's diagnosis and that's something to be thankful for; I might even agree with that. At the same time, Parkinson's is is an awful, painful, incurable disease that gets worse over time, so what's there to be thankful for?

Breast cancer on top of that just ain't right. There's no "greater plan" that can include that. Don't give me that "it's a test" shit, either; she's passed any possible test with flying colors in her 71 years.

I try not to get sad when thinking of my mom, but it can be difficult. I hate seeing her bent frame. She always had good posture and made sure my brother and I sat up straight at the dinner table. I hate seeing her hands tremble. She used to paint beautiful ceramic figurines. One year she gave me a ceramic Gizmo (from Gremlins) that played music when you turned the knob on the bottom

I'm fighting tears as I write this. Some of my sadness is probably out of self-pity. I think about how I've lived with her having Parkinson's longer than I lived with her not having it, and I think about how I will have more memories of her with the disease than without.

That's probably fucked up, right? I think all of these thoughts are pretty fucked up. But they are frequent. Too often, I think about the future and what the hell I'm gonna do without her in my life. That doesn't go too well.

I realize I'm being overly sensitive about it. I should just appreciate the time I have with her. A lot of my friends' parents have gone through similar things. Some of my friends have even lost a parent, or both parents. I know I shouldn't complain or be sad when she is still here, and still herself. But I will complain goddammit because my mom doesn't deserve this shit.

The only possible benefit of seeing my mom go through all of this is that her strength and resilience are on ready display. My mom isn't defined by Parkinson's but her perseverance and determination in the face of it does define her. She is facing the cancer the same way. I'm making a much bigger deal about it here than she ever has or will.

Another thing that has been made evident since the day of my mom's Parkinson's diagnosis is my father's strong yet gentle and loving disposition. Dealing with Parkinson's symptoms and the steady stream of doctor's appointments and trial procedures can be almost as difficult on the sufferer's partner. I think about how I can barely handle my mom's sickness, then think about how my father has been by her side ever since, no questions asked, and I wonder if I will ever be half as strong. Now, dealing with this new diagnosis, I am even more amazed by his resiliency.

I am amazed by both of my parents. I know that any good in me comes from them. I feel their love and guidance every day. I see their love and their lessons brought to life in my brother's daughters. I try to emulate my parents' love for each other and their love for life. It takes a real love of life to continue vacationing and cooking and walking the dog and loving one another, unabated by a neurological disease. And I'm sure this latest diagnosis and procedure will be no different.

Ok. I'm not sure. That's the problem. How can you ever be sure? Sometimes I wish I had faith in something. That might be comforting. Actually, that was part of the problem. I thought a god figure was comforting until it was really needed. Then it provided no comfort.

Anyways, if people are so inclined to pray for my mom, that's cool. Anything to even slightly increase the chances of things turning out fine. Personally, I am trying to think positive thoughts and spread good vibes and just generally not freak out. I figure if I spit out any negative thoughts, that would leave only positive thoughts, so I apologize if anything here comes off harsh, but if I know anything, it's that life can be harsh and bleak and down right brutal.

Thankfully, my parents have showed me that we can make a choice to focus on the beauty of life. It's not an easy choice, because it's easy to be overwhelmed by life's brutal realities. My first tattoo reads "The struggle is the blessing..."  It is a sort of combination of the buddhist belief that life is suffering and the idea that the journey is more important than the destination. I believe that the struggle is the blessing, yet I need to constantly remind myself because that is counter-intuitive. How can struggle be a blessing? I view struggle as a sign that you are living, you are fighting for something. When you don't struggle, you have given up. My parents, and Jimmy Valvano of course, taught me to never give up.

The idea that "the struggle is a blessing" is also a reminder to appreciate the present, as well as the past. Oftentimes, we don't appreciate the effort we put in to achieving a goal because we are so focused on the goal itself. Then, when we reach that goal, we realize that the real glory, the blessing, was in the effort we put in. Sometimes, I think about the future and life without my mom, when I should really be appreciating the time I've had with her and the time I still have with her.

Overall, viewing the struggle as a blessing, and using mindfulness to focus on the present are my ways of keeping perspective during tough times. There's got to be a reason for all this, right? That's what I'm really searching for, and that's why I seek solace in certain philosophies. They try to give meaning to things that seem to have none. The same goes for religious people, albeit in a slightly different manner, so although I might seem like I'm bashing theists, I swear to...my mom that I'm not. We're all searching for meaning and comfort and happiness. There's nothing wrong with finding alternative ways of doing so.

Right now, the number one way for me to find meaning and comfort and happiness is knowing that my mom is all right. So make sure she's all right, universe (i.e., doctors and nurses taking care of her).

UPDATED 10/29/2016: Mom is doing well after surgery. She will do the radiation treatments in a few weeks when she has healed. So it goes.

I Love You All (Especially You, Mom and Dad)...Class Dismissed.

On Lizards and Love and Pea Soup

I took my bearded dragon to the vet today.

There she is!

She hadnt been in a while. She also hasn't been eating too much lately and she's got gunk in her eyes and she's 5 and a half years old which is kinda old for bearded dragons, so I figured she could use a check-up.

First off, the vets at Kensington Bird and Animal Hospital are great. Plus, they usually have a duck chilling behind the front desk, recuperating. A duck I tell you!

Anyways, the first thing they did is put her in a bowl and weigh her. She lost half a pound since the last visit, and at 5.4 pounds, that's like a quarter of her total body weight. I think. Not a math guy.

Next they checked the inside of her mouth. Ducey, my lizard, keeps her mouth shut like a female should (kidding!) so they used a rubber spatula to pry it open. She didn't like that too much but I guess they saw something because they wanted to do some blood work, which involved sticking a giant needle in her tail and taking a larger amount of blood than I thought would come out of a lizard tail.

When I woke up and got off the floor, they had the blood work analyzed. Her kidneys were fine! Also, lizards have kidneys!

But she was dehydrated. The indicators were her weight loss, sluggishness, lack of eating, sunken and crusty eyes, and the lack of elasticity in her skin. When you pull her skin, much like with a human, it should snap back to regular shape when you let go. Hers stayed bunched up.

So they got another giant needle filled with H20 and jammed it in her side. As they injected her, a bubble formed on her right side. You can see it in the picture. They said that it should disperse over the next hour.

Lastly, they gave me a powdered formula. I needed to mix it with warm water and use a plastic syringe to feed her. The vet said I should mix the formula until it becomes the consistency of pea soup.

Pea soup? Of all the things in the world, why would she reference pea soup? I don't know the damn consistency of pea soup. All I know about pea soup is that my mom used to cook it for my father when I was young and it stunk up the house for days. It was brutal. I can seriously smell it right now because the smell is so intense it travels through time.

The craziest part is that nobody else in the house ate pea soup. Not even my mom.

My dad loved it though, so she suffered through it. It was quite the sacrifice. Looking back on it, I see that it was the perfect metaphor for love. You have to be able to do things for your partner that you may not want to do and that, in some cases, might even assault your senses in ways you could never imagine and often don't believe as they are happening.

Of course, my brother and I had to suffer through these malodorous expressions of true love as well, so I didn't really see it as a beautiful representation of a lifelong commitment. I saw it as cruel and unusual punishment.

I don't disagree with that assessment today, but I also see it for what it really was. Without even realizing it, I was learning one of the most important lessons about love: real love is cooking your partner's favorite food even though you despise it. I don't know the consistency of pea soup, but I know my mom must really love my dad to cook him something that smelled like a dumpster rat's diarrhea.

I'm grateful to have learned that lesson, and to have two parents who loved each other in a way that taught me that lesson. I don't think it's a coincidence that my girlfriend cooks fish for me despite the fact that it disgusts her. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Anyways, the vet bill was ridiculously high and my lizard is doing fine.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Boston Chicken, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying & Love Michael J. Fox

The day began like any other New England summer day: hot, humid, and unremarkable. It was the summer before my senior year in high school and I had just started my first job. Minimum wage—$5.00 at the time—at a local market, stocking shelves, working the register, cleaning the meat and fish coolers, and best of all, killing thousands of cockroaches in the dark, dank basement. My skills with a can of Raid were unparalleled.

My mother picked me up at 6pm. The ride home was silent as I was in my usual post-work catatonic state. Plus, I was 16. Conversations with my parents didn't involve much more than a head nod and "uh huh". (To be fair, at 32, not much has changed.) My mom mentioned something about dinner, I mumbled something back, and we stopped at Boston Chicken for take-out. This was before they expanded their menu and changed the name to Boston Market, changes I still have not fully accepted. I don’t know where my brother was and I think my dad was at work—more likely golfing—so it was just the two of us for dinner. I got my usual: one half-chicken, white meat; side of mashed potatoes with gravy; side of cinnamon apples; and a piece of cornbread. My mother’s meal was identical, except for a smaller piece of chicken. I guess we're all a lot more similar to our parents than we're willing to admit.

When we got home, I placed the dinners on the table and my mom poured a glass of milk for each of us—chocolate for me, of course. Before she even sat down I was halfway done with my side dishes. After a day in the cockroach-infested dungeon, the sweet smell of those cinnamon apples chased the manners my mom had instilled in me right out the window. If I wasn’t in a Raid-induced daze with my mouth full of potatoes and apples, I might have noticed that something was bothering my mom, something more serious than my lack of table manners. In fact, I was grateful for her unusual silence, allowing me to enjoy my meal and avoid the usual one-sided dinner conversation.

She eventually sat down and began her meal. After only a few bites, she finally spoke:

“Geoff, I have to talk to you about something.”

I knew it. I did something wrong and I was about to feel her wrath.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but lately, my right arm has been shaking.”

Actually, I had noticed. But I couldn’t possibly have caused that, right? (Ahhh the narcissism of youth.) Where was this going?

“Well, a couple weeks ago, I went to the doctor to check it out. He did some tests and well, he told me I have Parkinson’s disease.”

At that age—to this day, really—I did not have a full understanding of the disease; I just knew it was bad. And I don't know if there's a technical term for the searing pain I felt tearing a hole in my stomach as my mother told me about her disease, but I knew it was also bad, and I knew that no amount of cinnamon apples or rotisserie chicken was ever going to fill that hole.

Almost a year after my mother told me about her condition, a very peculiar thing started to happen to me. It had been building inside of me that whole year and I couldn’t really put my finger on it. One incident in particular marked a drastic change for me personally. When I came home from school one day, I found a People magazine on the coffee table in the family room. Apparently, my mom, who rarely bought People, had left it out. On the cover of the magazine was Michael J. Fox, with the announcement that he had been battling Parkinson’s disease for the past 7 years. So, instead of watching tv for the next 6 hours as usual, I started to read.

Or tried to read. About three paragraphs in, my throat began to tighten up, my heart beat a little faster, and a watery substance began leaking from my eyes. I could barely finish the article. I had to go to the bathroom to wipe the snot off my upper lip. I felt like a 6-year-old who fell off his bike and scraped his knees. It was pathetic.

I started asking the same questions I asked when my mother told me she had the disease: How could this happen to such a good person? He’s one of the greatest, most popular actors of our time. Yeah, he also made Life with Mikey, but he he didn't deserve this.

I cried for many reasons as I read the article. When my mom first told me, I cried out of sheer shock. It didn't actually sink in. It took a full year, and a celebrity coming out with the disease, for everything to fully register. Hearing my mom say she had the disease felt like being in a movie. I wasn’t used to my reality being that serious. In turn, hearing Marty McFly say he had the same disease destroyed the facade. It was so surreal hearing this actor (an actor who played a few of my favorite characters and had established himself permanently into my imagination) discuss the hardships of his disease, that it actually made me realize the reality of my mother's condition. I needed someone from the entertainment world—virtual reality—talking about the disease to make my mother's situation real. That's got to be some kind of new phenomenon caused by the over-saturation of pop culture. Or it's just me.

There's more to it than that, of course. The fact is, there was a lot about the People article that really shed light on my mom’s situation, as well as my own. I learned a lot about the disease itself, but I also learned a lot about the man and his family. Although he was a wild partier and drinker once, especially in the Alex P. Keaton days, Fox was always considered one of the nice guys in Hollywood. He married Family Ties co-star Tracy Pollan in 1988 and had four kids with her. Unlike Hollywood flash-marriages that we read about every weekend, they are still together. So that was another reason his experience was so relatable to my mom's experience. The long term marriage that is, not the partying and heavy drinking.

A big difference was that my mom was diagnosed with Parkinson's in her early 50's. Fox was diagnosed with the disease in 1991, at the tender age of 30 years old. 30?! I'm 32!! Shit! Anyways, he battled with the decision to go public for 7 years. Fox felt that even the few people that knew of his condition treated him differently, so he kept it a secret as best he could to protect his career. The people that got him through it all were his family, of course. His wife and his kids really provided the strength he needed. That was the part of the article that really got to me. His kids, who are all younger than me, were in the same situation as I was: something was wrong with one of the people we loved the most and we didn’t have a clue what to do. I could easily relate to the fear and confusion that his kids were going through.

What the article really did for me was show me that other people are going through this, too. Even a Hollywood actor—a person basically above the law and above normal social standards in this country—can be afflicted by this awful disease. They, and their families, hurt just as much as the average person. The grace, courage, and the dignity Michael J. Fox displayed in confronting the disease was and is really inspiring. A perfect example of this was the episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm in which he appeared. As with everything involving Larry David, it was outrageous, awkward and uncomfortable at times, self-deprecating without being self-pitying, and absolutely hilarious. I'm biased, but it was one of the funniest episodes in television history.

Fox might be scared (how could he not be?) but he will not be beaten. The individuals and families battling this disease need that strength and reassurance from a figure like him. Every movement needs a voice, and it really helps if that voice is familiar. Ironically, the voice that has come to represent the battle with my mom’s disease just so happens to be the voice of Chance, the lovable, mischievous dog in one of her favorite movies, Homeward Bound. Chance? More like destiny.

Fox became an unmentioned hero after his announcement. I don't recall openly discussing his situation, but I noticed that more magazines featuring him were appearing around the house. It was almost comforting to know he was going through this, too. And just like my mom, he kept working after being diagnosed. When he made the announcement, he was still on Spin City, one of the top-rated shows at the time, and an underrated classic. A couple years after the announcement, he sadly had to step away from the series (replaced by his good friend Charlie Sheen). The tremors were becoming increasingly bothersome, and he felt he had more important things to focus on, like finding a cure.

Michael J. Fox is no scientist. He's never been the super hero type. And unfortunately, time travel still only exists in his best movies. But Fox has been able to utilize the one super power he does possess: fame. In 2000, he started the Michael J. Fox Foundation, which is “dedicated to ensuring the development of a cure for Parkinson’s disease within this decade through an aggressively funded research agenda.” Check out their website and maybe even help out. The foundation has helped raise $325 million towards research since its inception, and over the past several years, Fox has aggressively and effectively lobbied Congress for funds; apparently, Congress enjoyed Teen Wolf as much as the rest of us.

In all honesty, it is truly remarkable what he has done to advance research and increase awareness of the disease. He is a modern day hero.

And so is my mom. And so are a million other people with this disease who continue to push forward in the face of adversity. Many of them, including my mom, participate in trial testing for research purposes in order to help future generations avoid this horrible affliction. Currently, my mom takes a handful of drugs (not even the fun kind) every day to slow the advancement of the disease. Most of the medications come with some side effects, of course. As my dad tells me, it is impossible to tell what the side effects are because my mom doesn’t talk about it. She wouldn’t want to burden anybody else with her problems, but according to my dad, restlessness and stiffness are constant issues.

In spite of all that, nobody would ever even know that my mom is battling a disorder of her central nervous system. She doesn’t want or need sympathy, she just wants to live her life. One thing for certain with this disease is that stress is a giant aggravator. Stress is bad period, but it really intensifies the symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. My mom's remedy for stress? Get away. Lounge on the beach in Hawaii in the middle of winter. Live in a condo in Florida for a month. Go on a cruise to the Balkans.

She has chosen to enjoy her life, and to me, that’s heroic.

But in actuality, it’s nothing compared to what she was doing her entire adult life: teaching high school special education for 35 years in Hartford. The funny thing is, she wouldn’t complain about that, either. She may have complained about the administration, but never the job itself, or the kids. And then, after all those years of dedication to other people, she becomes afflicted with a degenerative brain disorder. Some people would curse the heavens for their horrible luck. Some would just waste away, feeling sorry for themselves. I'd probably fall in the second camp myself. Others, like my mom, face the disease head on and beat it by dictating the terms of their own lives instead of letting the disease dictate how they live. She is the perpetual teacher, living her life as an example to the rest of us.

That’s what I learned from Michael J. Fox, too: take control of your life, don’t let it control you, regardless of how difficult it may become. And as a family member of someone afflicted with this disease, or any disease for that matter, the only thing to do is give your support. Try to understand the disease as much as possible; as Evidence from Dilated Peoples said, "the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t."  I have never been very vocal with my emotions towards my parents; even now when they say, “We love you,” I usually reply with, “You, too.” But our feelings are understood. Writing has always been my preferred method of expression, and this essay is a testimonial to the love and respect I have for my mom.

And to my father for being by her side the whole time.

And of course, it's a testimonial to Michael J. Fox.

Another important thing I learned from all this: bad things happen in life, and many times, it happens to really good people. The key is how you deal with it. Will the situation define you? Or will you define yourself by dealing with that situation? My mom and Michael J. Fox have been defined by their courageousness in the face of this horrible disease, and throughout their lives. I hope I have the bravery to deal with any situation the way they have dealt with this; and considering I was raised by one of them and raised on the other, I think there's a chance I will.

I’m confident that one day Doc Hollywood and the many others working for the cure will find it. I’m also confident that whether or not a cure is found in her lifetime, my mom will not let this disease dictate her life.

I can't think of a better spokesperson than Michael J. Fox, and I can't think of a better mother than mine.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.