I’ve been away all week at the Salt Lake City
International Street Medicine Conference.
My talk went as well as I could expect … even a standing ovation. Many of the older participants and even some
of the younger ones had read my books and some even mentioned my positive
influence on their careers. I felt
something of a rock star.
On the other hand, I became even more aware of my
increasing disability. The brief
question-and-answer period after the talk went well enough. That’s ordinarily my favorite part of these
speaking invitations, but this time I was anxious ahead of time. But I really felt out of it in the social
events afterwards. I just wasn’t able to
participate in the conversations. Given the
anxiety this whole process has engendered, I don’t think I should accept
speaking engagements to large groups anymore although I still feel like I can
work with smaller groups.
I couldn’t easily find my way around the college
campus where the conference was held.
The lecture room was probably no more than a seven-minute walk from the
hotel, but I had to ask for directions on perhaps six different trips before I
got the route straight.
Someone yesterday mentioned his mother who had had
Alzheimer’s for ten years. I had
somehow been thinking two years or so of being aware of what was going on, a
year or two of needing help and then perhaps death in the fifth year. To live so much of my life with this
progressive disease seems intolerable.
Sometimes the recognition of what is happening to me is a knife wound in
my chest. Tears aren’t particularly
close, but I wish they were.
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