Byline: Debbie
Shapiro
Once a week, on Thursday mornings, I climb the
hill to a nearby women's gym to do aerobic dancing along with dozens of other
women, most in the early twenties. Although I modify the teacher's
instructions to suit my own fitness level, which means that while the other
women jump high in the air, or spin around the room, I step spritely in place,
I still manage to work up a good sweat. I don’t particularly care for the music
they have accompanying the class, but the fast tempo of it impels me to move
fast, which is just what the doctor ordered.
One of the most amazing things about
Parkinson's is that since it's really all in the head (as in it is neurological,
not psychological), although walking is difficult, dancing is a pleasure! (There
are people with Parkinson's who cannot walk, yet, because a different part of
the brain is responsible for these tasks, can play tennis, or ice hockey or
dance unassisted!). The instructor, a sweet young girl with hair pulled back
into a curly pony tail, often throws me a huge smile and gives me the thumbs up
(that's E for Effort).
Sometimes, during the few seconds that we have
to rehydrate ourselves between dances, a few of the women in class tell me how
much they admire me for sticking with it, and for trying (with emphasis on the
word "trying") to keep up with the teacher. One women breathlessly
asked me if I was a certain well-known rebbetzin, so even though I
have no doubt that I look ridiculous (I mean, really, Debbie, can't you act
your own age?) at least it’s a respectful-looking ridiculous!
Just to give you an idea how incredibly young
most of my fellow-dancers are, a couple of weeks ago, I stood waiting
for the elevator together with five absolutely adorable women from the class,
each pushing a stroller containing an equally adorable baby. They were having a
very animated discussion on (I kid you not) how incredibly old their husbands
had become (it took a long time for the elevator to come as the women were so
involved in their conversation it never occurred to them to press the button).
"I can't believe it," said one. "My husband turned twenty-six
last week!"
Amidst gasps of amazement at the passing of
time, another continued, "And mine just turned twenty-five. He's so, so ooooold!" The conversation continued in a similar vein
until I finally pointed out that the elevator will never arrive if no one presses
the button. Then, when it did arrive five seconds later, I quickly slipped into
the open door while the others continued their discussion, this time about various
strategies to fit five women with five strollers into a two by four elevator. As
the door was closing (with only me in it!), I turned to the women and said,
"Let me give you my blessings that someday you be married to old men!"
Yes, I realize that the above paragraph really
has nothing to do with Parkinson's, but I had to share it with you because (a)
it really is a very funny story, (b) it demonstrates the age difference between
me and the other women in the class and (c) I secretly hope that that the women
who were standing there will read this and, much to their horror, discover that
the decrepit old lady who can barely keep up with the class is really a famous
woman in disguise (yes, this last sentence contains plenty of literary license).
One morning, after a particularly grueling
hour trying to keep up with the young folks, I decided to relax in the lounge
before returning home. As I stood at the water cooler, waiting for my
disposable cup to finish filling, I kvetched to a grandmotherly looking
woman, who, instead of jumping around like a meshugenah, was sanely sitting
on the couch, knitting something, most probably baby booties. “Oy, ein
li koach,” I said. ”Oy, I have no more strength.”
The woman stopped her knitting for a moment,
looked me straight in the eye and retorted, “Al tagidi she’ein lach koach.
Tagidi, 'Hashem, ten li koach.’" “Don't say that you don’t have any
koach. Instead, say, ‘Hashem, give me koach.’”
As I dragged myself home, barely able to put
one foot in front of the other, I couldn't stop thinking about the woman’s
words. It suddenly dawned on me that I was so focused on my doing whatever is
in my power to overcome my physical challenge, I was forgetting Who gave it to
me, and that together with the physical aspects of the challenge is the
spiritual hard work of using this nisayon as a tool to grow in my
connection to Him.
But the problem is that I am – well, um,
(blush, blush) lazy. I am not one of those amazing women who spend their Shabbos
afternoons learning the parashah with several different meforshim
or fervently reciting Tehillim. I need a shiur to inspire me, and
that, too, has become a problem. I have what's called a resting tremor, which
means that when I am relaxed, my arm is not. And since I am afraid that the
other women at the shiur will stare at me, I end up concentrating on trying to
stop the shaking, usually without success. Then, to top things off, when I sit
for any length of time, I often feel like a kid with ADHD – it's as if there's
an electric current running inside my limbs and I need to tap my feet and move
my hands and arms around (this is aptly called restless arm/leg syndrome, and is
typical of Parkinson's disease). Since I really can't give into that urge, a
lot of my energy goes into keeping myself still, which, of course, takes away
from my level of concentration.
But several months ago I was asked to speak to
a group of Bais Yaakov girls on a tour of Eretz Yisrael. In preparation, I
downloaded shiurim to my MP3 player and then listened to them at every
opportunity – while walking to the gym, sitting on a bus, waiting for doctor,
washing dishes, folding laundry and dusting the furniture. On Friday night,
instead of immersing myself in the latest Binah, I reviewed the parashah
with Rashi. Shabbos morning, my questions on the sedrah at the seudah
were the catalyst for an interesting family discussion. That entire week I was
thinking over the ideas I had heard in the shiurim while deciding what
concept I wanted to convey to these girls and how I would use inyanim
from the parashah to get my point across. Through formulating my own thoughts,
the ideas became very concrete to me, and because of that, I couldn't be
complacent with my level of spiritual growth. Suddenly, I found myself davening
with just a bit more kavanah and being more careful about many of the
things I too often do by rote. Maybe I am onto something!
Like most of us, I need something to impel me
to grow, be it writing for Binah or giving a shiur. So thank you for allowing me to use these pages to formulate
my thoughts. Who knows, perhaps with all this chizuk I am getting
through writing to you, I might eventually transform myself into someone actually
worthy of sharing my thoughts with the chashuve women reading the
magazine!
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