My Angel

I had a hard day yesterday, because it started with a parent meeting for a new student. The student is a complicated one, and I was using an interpreter. The members of the team were mostly silent, except for the classroom teacher who questioned one of my goals for the student. I did not recover as quickly as I would have years ago. At ten minutes before the beginning of the school day, the principal interrupted me to say "hurry it along, cause we only have ten minutes..."

I was flustered. And not all that articulate yesterday, the stressful meeting made my anxiety, and of course, my motor symptoms skyrocket. Part of my Parkinson's Disease involves my mood states, and I constantly fight both depression and anxiety. I made it to the end of the day, got into my online chat room for some moral support, and fell asleep. I awoke at 4:00 am to the sound of someone coming into the house. I texted my daughter, realized that her two hours away for a short visit to a friends house had not ended. She was still "at a friends house, watching a movie." At 8:30 am, I heard her key in the door.

A panic attack started. I thought quite probably I might not make it to work today, making the situation worse. I have no sick days left, so taking a day off would mean a pay decrease of about $300.00. And I thought of the kids, needing and wanting to see me. I also knew that as difficult and toxic this school, it is better for me to work than to sit home and sink into feelings.

So I found a friend online to give me a pep talk. Crying, I explained my life to him. He listened, realized the details and that there are 20 days left of school, and he said, "Go on, show 'em what you got. Dig deep."

How to dig deep? I felt like I was running on fumes this morning. I talked out some of my other worries to Steve via phone, who listened sympathetically and gave his perspective. I was still feeling a fair amount of anxiety, despite having taken a Xanax 30 minutes before, and as I pulled into the parking lot at school, I was wondering how to dig deep.

Out of the blue, I heard my dad's gravely voice. I heard him say, "Don't the bastards get you down, Cath. You can do this, give the sonsabitches hell." As I was busy parking the car, I argued with him, tearfully, at this point. But I felt his strength,his backbone, and I turned off the motor and opened the door and headed into work. I have not heard from Dad for a long time, and I was not looking for an answer from him. It was exactly the tone and language he would have used in real life, I reflected, and I have no reason not to believe he is communicating with me. Again he finds me when I need him most.

Thanks, Dad. I love you, too.