Spring in the Catskills arrives late, then lush. Vegetable beds in the garden, a bank too steep where meadow meets lawn, spots unreachable by garden tractor in the meadow itself, edging about the house, space between the stones in the walk to the house, all sprout tall grass and weeds almost overnight. Keeping things under control, indeed from being overgrown and overtaken requires my attention, my time, and my weed whip. Some call it a string trimmer, others a weed whacker. By any name, it is one of the most important pieces of equipment in this country homeowner’s maintenance arsenal. For years mine was a heavy-duty “pro” model, a tool to make my engagement with intrusive vegetation a fairer, if not fair fight.
While renewing the struggle this spring my machine began making funny noises, then overheating enough to scorch the housing, and finally an alarming rattle. It was a Stihl FS 80R, described on the internet as the “best old school string trimmer.” Worrying the weeds would overtake my vegetable beds, I made a beeline to my Stihl dealer. An old-time gentleman, he patiently explained that the alarming rattle was my FS 80R’s death rattle. The screws and the socket holding the muffler in place were worn beyond repair or replacement. “How long had I had it.?” “A long time.” The dealer speculated Stihl hadn’t made them much after 2000. I guessed I’d had mine before then.
Time for a new one. A quick calculation suggested that if a new machine lasted as long as my now-defunct model, I’d be able to manicure my property until I was somewhere between 95 – 100 years old. The clear question became what would give out first, man or machine.
I left with a new machine and set right to work once back home. Weed whipping is a chore that allows plenty of time to meditate, dream, contemplate life, and reflect on where I’ve been and where I might like to go. Working with my much more efficient new machine it didn’t take long before my thoughts drifted back to the day before last Thanksgiving when I’d been given a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease. My immediate response was, “Am I doomed?” My regular doctor and a neurologist assured me I was not.
A couple of years ago I noticed some shaking in my left hand when I rested my arm on a desk to type. Or when I had to grasp a piece of paper. Or, a lack of facility with my fingers when trying to clean my hard contact lenses. Or, more frequent keystroke errors and loss of speed when typing. Left side only.
I kept these annoyances to myself, passing them off as a consequence of age. I confess to musing about them while working in the garden, or mowing our meadow, and Yes, weed whipping.
My wife, Margot, eventually picked up on some of the shakiness and insisted I mention it to my doctor at my next physical. I did. Upon examination, he believed my affliction to be something called Essential Tremor and prescribed a drug, Primadone, to alleviate the symptoms. I took it faithfully, as prescribed, for a year. It did nothing.
Ever so slowly my symptoms worsened. Ever so quickly my imagination, like my garden, sprang into action and bore fruit.. My father died of a brain tumor. I’d outlived his three score and ten…but still? My mother died of a massive stroke, having apparently had some smaller, unrecognized events along her path to age 94. Would I fall more than a full score short of her? Did I have a benign brain tumor, a small lime inside my skull to match the one Margot herself had had successfully removed a decade ago? Was my insomnia due to anxiety over having any of these conditions? Or was it Parkinson’s Disease? Worry beat a path to Google. Parkinson’s can result in insomnia. Hadn’t my doctor ruled that out? ALS? That can keep a fella awake for a while.
In the year between physicals, I lost sleep, wondered why my handwriting was smaller (micrographia), noticed facial tremors, felt my voice sometimes weaken, seemed to tire more easily, denied anything was wrong, only to plant my besieged head on a pillow nightly for more worry. Was that twinge I felt normal? Nothing? Essentially a tremor? Or death come knocking at my door? My faithful servant Denial couldn’t hear the banging.
Primidone may work well for Essential Tremor. I couldn’t tell you from my experience. It does nothing for Parkinson’s. My next annual physical arrived. I was as healthy as can be. Except for those symptoms I couldn’t wish away. My doctor offered no diagnosis…yet. Within a week I spent a day getting a DaTscan brain scan to share with my doctor and a neurologist to “rule out” Parkinson’s. A week later, after a thorough examination, I left the neurologist’s office with a new prescription in hand. By mid-afternoon, I’d taken my first dose of Carbidopa/Levodopa to treat Parkinson’s Disease. That medication works. My symptoms are much relieved and I appear, by and large, normal.
Still, underneath the jocular comments over whether the weed whip or I will expire first lies fear. The fear of death. Fear over a financially secure future. Fear over capabilities lost to time. Every time the fix engine light in the car goes on, a faucet drips, a board on the porch loosens, a tree blows down in a windstorm and needs to be cut up and removed, something as simple as removing the cover on a fixture to replace a light bulb calls, fear pushes forward. As the world around me breaks down and requires routine maintenance, it triggers fear over how I might break down. When does that maintenance become anything but routine? Something more than just a simple daily regimen of medication to hold back what is undeniably a neurodegenerative disorder.
I’m reminded of a lyric from “Non-Stop” in the musical Hamilton.
“How do you write like you're running out of time? (Running out of time?)
Write day and night like you're running out of time? (Running out of time?)
Every day you fight, like you're running out of time
Like you're running out of time
Are you running out of time?”
In fact, I am writing something I want to get out into the world. This December will mark the tenth anniversary of my son, William’s, death from an accidental heroin overdose. I’m creating a memoir that can be presented as a solo dramatic performance. That means writing and memorizing. Memorizing something approximately 80 minutes long seems daunting, a task that feels like it will require the life of several weed whips.
I remain vigorous and productive. Pleasingly so. To date, only my mind races ahead to other dates, or THE date. I have three extraordinary granddaughters who live nearby. Josephine Hope – 8, Willa Joy – 4, and Julia Love – 3. I take great joy in watching them develop: swimming, riding bikes, becoming literate, expressing themselves as artists, dancing, cartwheeling, and somersaulting through childhood. Often while doing meditative chores, I speculate on what they will become, and what their lives will be like. And, how much and for how long will I continue to be a participant/observer.
Approaching twenty years ago, I found myself taken by an opinion piece in The New York Times by Verlyn Klinkenborg. He began:
“The most famous line in Voltaire's ''Candide'' is the final one: 'We must cultivate our garden.' That is Candide's response to the philosopher Pangloss, who tries again and again to prove that we live in the best of all possible worlds, no matter what disasters befall us. Ever since ''Candide'' was published in February 1759, that line has seemed to express a reluctance to get involved, an almost quietist refusal to be distracted by the grand chaos of earthly events. And that reading might make sense, if Candide hadn't already lived through a lifetime of woe. In fact, that line is the summation of Candide's wisdom, his recognition that no matter how you choose to explain the world, the garden still needs cultivating.”
I return to Candide’s response every time the check engine light goes on when I need to replace a light bulb when the light of our democracy flickers. Beans need to be replanted when something sneaks in and helps itself to young sprouts. Little girls need bedtime stories. Letters to the Editor still need writing. Things will always need repair. As I contemplate life’s disasters, threats, and challenges while weed whipping, mowing, and cutting wood, I eventually return to Klinkenborg and Candide. I must cultivate my garden.
