Father Tom feels that the cure for Parkinson's Disease will not come from money alone. He believes that prayer will be needed to cure Parkinson's. After receiving a letter from Sister Carla Molina, Father Tom was so touched by her gift of "offerings of spiritual contribution by way of prayers, works, joys and sufferings imploring God's help in finding the origin, cause and cure of this painful, progressive disease" that Father Tom realized that his belief of the need for prayers in finding the cure was amplified by so many, he started this prayer chain. This prayer chain will begin the most powerful aspect of finding the cure. Please join us.
Monthly Prayer List
(people needing prayers)
Prayer Promises
(people praying)
Please check back often and share in the development of this powerful resource to finding a cure.
In Loving Memory Remembrance Page
Four Words.
A mere four words.
Quite innocuous on their own.
But when uttered to form a single sentence, the sentence…. Devastating, absolutely devastating.
The sound of the sentence, truly horrific, nothing less than horrific.
The sound far worse, more unsettling, than a blood curdling scream at three a.m., awakening one from a peaceful slumber.
The sound, far more disturbing than a car screeching down a slick highway on a rainy night,
Skidding to a glass shattering, horn blowing crashing halt.
The devastating sentence, the horrific sound, “You have Parkinson’s disease”.
In the most somber of tones and with no uncertainly in his voice, these four words, were spoken
To my mother by her doctor.
At the time of this blasphemous utterance, my mother was sixty three years old, a young, vibrant
Sixty three. I was nineteen years old and at her side. I was not sure, neither was my mother, what it all meant. But together, we certainly would learn.
This single sentence, these four words, marked the beginning of a chapter in a book, that page after page would slowly change my Mother’s world, my world, our world. With a driving force, Parkinson’s disease would eventually rob my Mother of her mobility, her speech, and her God given talents.
She was talented indeed. A Seamstress. An Artist. A passionate writer. A terrific baker. Not to mention, a wonderful and caring Mother. The disease a clever thief. This debilitating disease, in the still of the night, would creep into our sacred home, pilfering my Mother’s very being, a little at a time, in such a way, with such audacity, that when we awoke, there were no signs of forceable entry.
The pilfering occurred night after night, every night. And eventually, signs of the pilfering began to surface….everywhere. My Mothers cherished walks at the park grew less frequent. The hum of my Mother’s sewing machine became a rare sound. Her beautifully painted landscapes, her masterpieces, were no more; in their stead, blank canvases collecting dust. In her beloved kitchen, my Mother’s apron, once used on a daily basis, was now relegated to a corner shelf and her baking ingredients; they remained unopened in the cupboard. And my Mother’s smile, well, it had always graced her angelic face with such ease. But the disease, it slowly stole her smile. Her facial expression, it grew more and more somber with each passing day. However, her beautiful blue eyes, they never seized to reveal her determination, her fortitude. For my Mother was a peaceful soul and ironically she was in for the fight of her life. She fought with dignity and courage.
As she bravely fought, I did too. I would deal with my sadness, my sorrow and the accompanying stress by running. I would run and run, logging mile after mile, marathon after marathon.
With each passing day, I was getting stronger physically and trying my best to be strong mentally and emotionally. Only now do I see the true dichotomy, the apparent irony. For my body, day after day was growing stronger, very strong. Conversely, my Mother’s body day after day was growing weaker, very weak. But perhaps, this was a necessary dichotomy.
You see, my Mother and I were both similar in size. Both petite, in height and weight. As I grew stronger physically, I was able to assist her. First, with walking and maintaining balance. Eventually, her needed assistance grew more and more intense. A wheelchair became necessary, then a hospital bed. With all my might, I pushed my Mother in that wheelchair.
For the roles in our world were slowly pivoting in reverse. I was now taking care of her, just as she, many years before had taken care of me. I was now pushing her…. in a wheelchair, many, many years before she had pushed me… in a baby carriage. She was always at my side and now I was at her side…. Always. But, this horrific disease, to its dismay and disgust, never succeeded to sever our bond, as mother and daughter. If anything, our bond grew stronger, with each passing day.
Sadly, I lost my Mother to this devastating and destructive disease. However, my heart tells me this, I really have not lost her. Our bond is still intact. It’s everlasting. I feel her presence. She is at my side today and everyday. As I write this essay, she writes it with me, maybe for me. She is at my side, as I put pen to paper. As I bake in my kitchen, with her favorite recipe in hand, there she is, apron donned. As I take out my canvas and palette and begin to paint a landscape, I feel her presence. She paints once more, with me. As I lace up my sneakers and prepare for a run, she accompanies me.
For every corner, every lonely stretch of open road, there she is, logging the miles along with me. And so, perhaps n the end, in the very end, it was my Mother who gracefully finished the chapter of the book that forever changed her world, my world, our world. Her final sentence, her four words. Certainly not a mere four words, but rather a magnificent, meaningful four words.
“We are still together” |
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