Blank Canvas
I never knew I could paint.
For
me, it was a good day if I could just feed myself or take a few steps
without falling. When you have Parkinson's, the idea of picking up a
paintbrush is challenging. But now I paint constantly: landscapes,
abstracts, still-life studies and my favourite: fat ballerinas. All in
all, I have completed over 100 paintings since brain surgery in June
24, 2003 and then - I ordered my first set of blank canvasses.
Some have remarked that I am making up for lost time, and that is
certainly true. I was homebound and 17 years of my life had been spent
fighting a losing battle with a disease that had gradually stolen my
most basic capabilities, all during a time when I was struggling to
raise three daughters as a single parent. Over the years I lost the
ability to walk, talk, sleep and use my hands. I tried every known
therapy for the treatment of Parkinson's, and when all of them failed I
even tried suicide.
But one summer in June 2003, at the
age of 44, my life began again at Robert Wood Johnson University
Hospital; thanks to a surgical procedure known as Deep Brain
Stimulation (DBS), an operation that involves placing electrodes in the
brain. With the activation of a pacemaker connected to the electrodes,
literally with the flick of a switch, I regained abilities I thought
were gone forever.
Helen Keller wrote an essay entitled
"Three Days to See" in which she imagined what she would do if granted
a brief interlude of sight. Well, I too, have been granted an interlude
- to experience the full use of all our blessed faculties. It is
unknown how long it will last. There is no cure for Parkinson's, but
DBS surgery helps me to be able to look at my face in the mirror and to
paint my nails.
And so I paint; while my hand remains
steady; while there's still enough light. People say I'm pretty good at
it. But the critics I try to please are my daughters, Gisselle (26)
Tiffany (18) and Vanessa (17), and my beloved mother. Throughout my
children’s tender lives, they have endured my ups, my downs, and the on
and offs because of Parkinson’s; one image they had of me was being
sick and constantly shaking. To dissipate my disability, we played. I
would tell my girls that I was their “Barbie” doll, so they could help
me to get dressed. We also pretended to be in a restaurant and took
turns as to who would be the waitress so that they could help me to
serve their meals. We used to walk around the block, holding hands and
singing the ‘Wizard of Oz’, helping me to coordinate and initiate my
steps to the beat of the song.
Nowadays, they are no
longer saddened by my illness and we are getting to know each other in
very different ways. They are no longer afraid to leave me alone and
when bringing friends into the house, they introduce me with pride
saying, "My mother is an artist." That is all the praise I will ever
need to hear. I have regained my dignity.
One day I took a
break from painting to clean my house, a chore I had been putting off
for some time. Only those who have suffered physical impairment can
truly understand the sweetness of having their capabilities back. I
began to mop the floors, and I noticed that the floors of my house were
marked by numerous deep scratches. I realized that those were traces of
my illness. I had made them with my shoes while I was "kicking," a
symptom of Parkinson's. It made me a little scared to think what the
future holds for me, but it made me more determined to cherish every
second of my life.
Helen Keller ends her essay with an
admonition to "use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken
blind." To that I would add this thought for the coming years “It is a
privilege to be alive and in good health. So take the time to
appreciate the beauty of the morning, the shape of the clouds and to
embrace those we love.
