In
the Chicago Amtrak station
I offered what we call a “teaching” at our Eighth Day
church on Sunday. The subject was my
Alzheimer’s and my “theological learning” over the past five months. As with so many experiences I’ve had with
other people since September, this was a wonderful sharing that felt rich and
beautiful, deepening the bonds of community.
I posted the teaching on both the Eighth
Day site and my
own, and (as I usually do with my writings) sent it out to my mailing list
of over 300. Within hours a torrent of
emails began to flood my Inbox. This suggests
not only support for me but also the hunger people have to learn about this
disease. It’s well-matched by my desire
to write and teach.
As I review the sermon, however, I see I’m using the
terms “beautiful,” “wonderful,” “rich,” “gift” so often that it begins to feel
like a soap advertisement out to convince myself and others about the wonder of
the product. Reviewing my posts over the
last several months, I get the same feeling.
At an intellectual level I understand what the future has in store for me: It’s not pretty. And my friends and old readers will know that
I’m hardly a Pollyanna: My usual response is to dwell much more in dark side of
things than the light. Indeed, this
experience of joy over the past five month is unique, as great a surprise to me
as it may be to those who know me well.
But the richness and beauty are so real that I can hardly write about it
without using these overused terms that smack of hyperbole or, worse, just trying
to put a pretty face on suffering. I do sometimes
wonder whether these current feelings aren’t some kind of euphoria that will
eventually reveal itself as just another way of coping with feelings of fear,
anxiety, depression, etc. Given some of
the emotional pain I’ve suffered several times in my life, however, I know that
denial is not my style.
Perhaps what sometimes seems like hyperbole is just the
loosening of inhibitions that goes with this disease.
At this point I don’t know. Wherever this joy comes from, it’s real, and
it’s part of what it has meant for me to live within the reality of my Alzheimer’s
disease. And I’m grateful.
And, as I’ve
written before for a writer everything is material.
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