I’ve just finished a late night chat with a young person diagnosed with FTD/Picks. Healthy specimen of a human, daredevil, entrepreneur, philanthropist; earlier listened to a the daughter of a woman who was a judge, another whose father a professor and linguist. An athlete of world renown. A mother of 3 young children diagnosed last year, whose husband just left her.
The thing we all have in common, besides this damned unknown disease, is our work ethics, our intelligence, our career paths, our life successes. And trying to remember if we ate lunch, or took our meds.
Lawyers, accountants, physicians, musicians … it seems like the more we pushed our brains, and stretched them to get that last project done, wrap up that final paper, meet that deadline, well it’s like our brains have finally snapped. Like we broke them somehow.
We thought it was stress, no, maybe depression or anxiety, plain exhaustion or insomnia. But the lethal mix only threw us from finding the truth earlier. Not that it would change the course of things with our disease. It will consume us, some in a matter of months.
But I would not have waited to enjoy life more. One more customer or one more Catholic won’t matter in the end. But I let my quality of life sift through my hands thinking if I worked just a little harder, a little longer, then ‘someday’ I would catch up with my family and friends. Someday I would see Europe, or Lexington or Indianapolis. I would have enough money. I would spoil my grandchildren. I would have made my mark on the world.
And I guess what I am saying is any marks I was going to make have been made. I will have to be satisfied that my trips get me to the grocery store, maybe not Italy. My world has become smaller. Quieter.
But I am not giving up. That’s one thing I never have been good at: knowing when to say it’s over. And I pray for all who have touched my life on that thing called Facebook and now through this blog.
We are alive!! Just by communicating we are saying we are still here. Not done. Not through.