The Good Patient

After my diagnosis, I slept badly the first night, got up the next day, dressed for work, and then passed out in my bedroom. My “serious neurological disease,” the term I had jokingly used before my diagnosis—in an obvious attempt to neutralize the symptoms and keep the goddess Nemesis at bay—had finally come true. Even hypochondriacs occasionally develop incurable diseases.

My doctor told me that most of his Parkinson’s patients tend to glory over what they can still do, not regret their limitations.

Slowly, over time I am finding that to be the case. Since serious symptoms are delayed several years, I have had time to adjust and make my own peace with this condition.

Nevertheless, I am embarrassed when friends tell me I am “courageous” and “inspiring,” when they tell me my acceptance is a sign of “spiritual grace” or that I am confronting this disease with “grace and dignity.”

Nice words. But they seem to be making a plaster saint of me, and therefore diminishing the spiritual accomplishments of those who suffer painful and fatal illnesses with equanimity.

I question whether I’m experiencing spiritual acceptance or monumental denial. I always believe that I should be doing more spiritual work to reap my ostensible acceptance.

Or is grace free?