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 disease, the idea of picking up a paintbrush is challenging.

Now I paint constantly: landscapes, abstracts, still-life studies and my favorite: fat ballerinas. In all, I have completed more than  over 100 paintings  since my DBS brain surgery (June 24, 2003) and ordering 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 for the last 17 years of my life have been spent in a losing battle with a disease that gradually stole my most basic capabilities, all during a time when I was struggling to raise three daughters as a single parent.

Through 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) a operation that involves placing electrodes in the brain. With the activation of a pacemaker connected to the electrodes literally the flick of a switch I regained abilities I thought were gone forever.

Helen Keller once wrote an essay entitled "Three Days to See" in which she imagined what she would do if granted a brief interlude of sight. 

I 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, 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.  The critics I try to please, however, are my daughters Gisselle (26) Tiffany (18) and Vanessa (17) and my beloved mother. 

 Throughout my children tender lives, they endured my ups, downs, on, offs that Parkinson’s brought; the one image they had of me was of being sick, constantly shaking.                                           

 To dissipate my disability, we played.  I would tell my girls that I was their “Barbie” doll, so they can help me get dressed. We also pretended to be in a restaurant and took turns on who would be the waitress in order for them to help me serve their meals.  We used to walk around the block, each holding my hands, they sang the song of the Wizard of Oz, and with the beat of the song, they helped me coordinate and initiate steps.

 Nowadays, they are no longer sadden by my illness, we are getting to know each other in very different ways.  They are no longer afraid to leave me alone and when they bring friends to the house, they introduce me with pride telling them, "My mother is an artist."  That is all the praise I will ever need to hear.

 I have regain my dignity.

One day  I took a break from painting to clean my house, a chore I have been putting off for some time.   Only those who have suffered physical impairment can truly understand the sweetness of having their capabilities back. I started 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 made them with my shoes while I was "kicking," a symptom of Parkinson's also called restless legs.  It made me a little scared to think what the future holds for me, 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. Take time to appreciate the beauty of the morning, the shape of clouds and to embrace those we love.