Finding Reward through Emotional Trials

I stand outside the cave, taking a final look, feeling both wonder and disbelief. Anxiety clings to me, a constant companion. Daisy’s advice echoes in my mind—I need to let go and live one moment at a time, but Parkinson’s Disease (PD) makes that difficult. My interactions with family, friends, and strangers remind me daily of my diminishing emotional filters. Though I intellectually understand my unmoored feelings, overcoming them is another challenge. My reactions are now physiological responses that my mind can’t always control. The deterioration is swift, and there are days when I feel like a mere observer of my slipping mental control, speech, and health. While I can’t stop PD’s progress, I can still try to embrace Daisy’s advice: live moment by moment, let go, and maybe even adopt a dog.

I spot Benny, waiting by boxes of old stage manager call books. He grins at me and asks, “What happened in the cave?” I don’t answer directly but instead say, “Benny, it’s time to get rid of these call books. They’re outdated and have no place in my life now.” He looks puzzled but agrees, tossing the boxes into my EV. “Where’s the rest of the troupe?” I ask. He points to a nearby grove of trees.

Walking over, I find them sitting around a firepit. The flames are out, but the ashes still smolder. “Why weren’t you in the cave?” I ask. Apathetic Annie sheepishly explains, “We were there, but we left quietly to give you time with Daisy.” Grieving Gertrude adds, “You’re still processing Daisy’s death.” Indecisive Izzy chimes in, “We thought giving you space might help.” One by one, they all apologize for the weight they’ve placed on me. I’m stunned, overwhelmed by a sudden euphoria. Lonely Louise gently offers to help me find the dog Daisy promised, and I accept her help.

Benny hands me my laptop, suggesting it’s time to start the search. The troupe gathers around me in a semi-circle, staring. “What?!” I scream. “You’re making me nervous!” I lash out, “Can’t I have one day without pressure?!” Then I sigh, realizing I can’t. Parkinson’s makes everything harder, even the positive emotions like joy and hope. They stir up happy memories that often turn into tears.

“Am I ever going to get rid of you?” I ask them desperately. Apathetic Annie steps closer, putting her arm around me. She leads me toward Hope and Sad Sammy, who hold a large object wrapped in red velvet. “This is for you,” they say. I unwrap it to find a mirror framed with hundreds of stained glass pieces. “These pieces represent all of us,” Hope explains. “We’re always with you, but you don’t have to fear us. Speak to us in the mirror, from your heart. We now understand how Parkinson’s affects your ability to cope. We’ll stand with you in this battle.”

I look at them, speechless, and manage a simple “Thank you.” Benny re-wraps the mirror and stores it in the EV. He then takes charge, instructing everyone to get in the car. As I wipe away tears and get behind the wheel, Lonely Louise eagerly reminds me, “We’re going to search for that dog!” I sigh, knowing how much work it will be, and start the drive home, thinking, “Oh, boy!”

Call Books and Canine Capers: An Unconventional Road Trip Home

It’s a sunny day and the air is so light and refreshing. I can feel it through the slightly rolled down windows as we cruise down the road headed for home. I’m enjoying the drive because the road is deserted, quiet, and none of my passengers are demanding anything from me. They are all occupied.  Benny, sitting in the front passenger seat, is typing away on the laptop. He says he is creating a new call book for “Amy’s Daily Guidelines”. I’m thankful Benny is doing this for me but I’m reserving judgment on that for a while. I may be completely done with call books in my life because they can be too regimented. My life is so much in flux now that I live with Parkinson’s. Lonely Louise, Grieving Gertrude and Indecisive Izzy are in a private, quiet huddle just behind my seat. I can hear them talking about searching for a new dog. I really don’t know how to even start thinking about a new dog, so I’ll just leave it to them. Doubtful Dennis, Worrisome Wanda and Sad Sammy are busy playing the license plate game. Dennis is amazed that he saw a plate from Mexico and Sammy is so happy to have found a special 1976 Bi-Centennial plate from Massachusetts. Apathetic Annie seems to be lost in contemplation as she looks out the window next to her in the back seat. I’m Too Tired Tucker is passed-out, sleeping in Annie’s lap. In the rear view mirror I look at Annie’s face and notice a change. Her skin looks softer and has a rosie tone. Her expression is no longer harsh. Hmmm, I wonder… I’ll have to decipher this change when we get home. 

After about an hour, we pull into town and continue down the main road through the center of town. Louise and Gertrude get so excited because they see a lot of dogs walking with their people on the sidewalks. They start naming the breeds they see and like the best. Izzy likes all of them, naturally! The license plate game winds up and Sammy is the winner. Annie turns her attention back into the car and she nudges Tucker to wake up. We are a few blocks from home. I start to feel anxious again. I turn to Benny and ask him to take charge. “Benny, I really need your help. You know me, you think like me and I trust you. I can’t handle any responsibility for this troupe right now. Could you wrangle them please? I thought I got answers and felt better after seeing Daisy again in the cave, but that overwhelmed feeling is coming up again.” Benny answers with confidence, “You got it!” 

We pulled into the driveway. Benny barks with authority, “Everybody, out of the car and into the house. Settle down in the living room and have some ‘quiet time’. PLEASE, do not bug Amy. She’s going to rest in her room.”  Benny, turns to me and softly says, “Now go lay down. Have a good rest and clear your mind.”  I quietly replied, “Thank you, Benny. You’re a Mensch!”

I lay down in the silence of my bedroom and try to quiet my mind. I find myself staring up at the ceiling and inescapably thinking about Daisy’s death again. I look to the right, on the floor, at the dog bed and blanket still in place, where Daisy had her fatal seizure. I tell myself, “No, I’m not going to go there!” But I do. I roll onto my back to look at the ceiling again and start crying. I feel a couple of tears roll down the side of my cheek and into my ear. I take a deep breath, curl up into a fetal position, pull up the covers over my head, and fall asleep, escaping grief for at least an hour.

Mirror, Mirror: Finding Resilience and a Poodle Named Ye-Na

It’s 6:30 PM, there’s a soft knock at my bedroom door, and I see Annie cautiously peering in. She asks if I was able to rest, and I admit that I only managed a little, with too much on my mind. Annie gently reminds me of the 7 PM meeting Benny called. Feeling overwhelmed, I groan, “I can’t deal with that tonight. I don’t know why I’m feeling so lost and empty. I thought I was in a good place after that venture into the cave with Daisy, but even good experiences can throw me off balance. I can’t handle it tonight.” I ask Annie, exasperated, to get Benny for me.

When Benny arrives, he greets me warmly and asks if I need to go over his notes or if I need anything else. Confused and flustered, I struggle to articulate what I need, my thoughts scattered. “I feel awful, and my brain is all mixed up. I can’t manage… I can’t even finish my sentences!” Benny quickly understands, “It’s okay, boss. No meeting, right?” I weakly confirm, and Benny takes charge, telling Annie to stay with me and talk things out while he handles everything else.

Benny heads to the living room and informs the troupe of emotions gathered there that the meeting is canceled, possibly for the next month. Hope asks how they can help, and Benny delegates tasks: Izzy, Louise, and Gertrude are to continue searching for the dog, while Hope and the others hang up the mirror they made for me. Benny retreats to the kitchen to work on his call book.

The troupe hangs the mirror near the front door, and Doubtful Dennis calls Benny to check it out. Benny approves, “It looks great! Nice job!” Annie, noticing the mirror, suggests bringing me to see it, thinking it might help ease my stress and confusion.

Reluctantly, I pry myself out of bed and follow Annie down the hallway to the mirror. As I stand before it, I manage to whisper, “It’s beautiful.” The broken, stained-glass pieces framing the mirror catch the light and sparkle, drawing Annie closer. She explains that the glass will sparkle whenever I look into the mirror and think about any emotions. As Annie gazes into the mirror, I notice she looks different—softer, with a rosy glow. Her eyes widen, and she smiles, then wraps me in a hug, exclaiming, “It’s you! I can sense your thoughts and feelings now!” I hugged her back, amazed, and realized that she has transformed into Empathetic Annie.

Benny, curious, asks if the mirror has the power to change feelings. Hope clarifies that the mirror is just a spiritual guide; the power lies within the one looking for answers.

Shifting focus, I ask Izzy how the puppy search is going. He showed me a profile photo of a small grayish poodle on the computer. Izzy asks if I think she’s cute, and Gertrude and Louise eagerly ask if we can adopt her. I hesitate, unsure if I’m ready, but then I notice a pink collar with daisies under her chin in the photo. Suddenly, I know—she’s the one, sent by Daisy. Hope tells me this little dog is full of redemption for me, and Annie, sensing my apprehension, reassures me that we need each other. Louise and Gertrude agree, and I start to smile, cry, and shake all at once, feeling overwhelmed yet certain. Annie takes my hand and comforts me, saying, “It feels right.” Nervously, I agree, and Benny takes over, quickly filling out the application. He then motions for me to hit the submit button. I let out a huge sigh and say, “Here we go,” as we begin the wait for a response.

Learning to Just Be: Life Lessons from Tena

After weeks of paperwork, sending photos and videos of our house, and a video interview, we finally heard the news we were hoping for—we were chosen to foster Ye-Na, a gray poodle with a Daisy collar, rescued from a puppy mill in Korea. The process took about a month, and when we were selected, excitement and anticipation filled our home. We prepared everything for her arrival, from food and toys to making sure the house was a welcoming space for her.

The day Ye-Na arrived was unforgettable. My daughter and I waited at the airport arrivals, nervous but thrilled to welcome her. After what felt like an eternity, we spotted a porter pushing a cart with a dog crate, and there she was—our sweet poodle with her silver-gray fur and big dark eyes. Tears of joy welled up in my eyes. After collecting her paperwork from the flight escort, we carefully loaded Ye-Na into the car, making sure not to open the crate until we were safely home as per the rescue organization’s instructions.

Arriving home, I saw my family waiting with handmade signs saying, “Welcome HOME” and “Welcome Ye-Na.” The warmth of that moment reassured me that fostering Ye-Na was the right decision. We carried the crate into the house and set it down in the living room. After a quiet moment of anticipation, I opened the crate door. Ye-Na cautiously stepped out and, to my amazement, walked directly into my lap, tilting her head up to look at me. In that instant, I knew she wasn’t going to be just a foster dog—she was home. “We can start using her new name,” I announced. “She’s not going anywhere. She’s staying.” Together, we joyfully called out her new name, “Teeeena!”

It’s been six months since that day, and raising Tena has been both challenging and rewarding. Coming from a life of confinement in a puppy mill, Tena didn’t know how to “dog.” She had never lived in a home, let alone navigated stairs or jumped onto a couch. Simple things, like moving up and down steps or getting onto furniture, were foreign to her. She often expected to be picked up and, when lifted, spread her legs awkwardly as though unsure how to be held. It was exhausting at times, but in recent months, there’s been noticeable progress. Tena smiles more now, wags her tail, and even plays. She’s learning to trust and be at ease in her new world.

Looking back, I imagined that bringing Tena into our lives would be a simple, happy ending—a natural conclusion to my journey. But I’ve learned that Tena’s presence isn’t a magical solution to life’s challenges. She is a constant reminder that life is about accepting emotions rather than trying to control them. Living with Parkinson’s has taught me that my emotions are always present, sometimes overwhelming, but I’m learning that the key to managing them isn’t to suppress them but to acknowledge and let them be.

Daisy had given me the advice to just “BE” with Tena, and now I understand what that means. It’s about allowing myself to sit with my feelings without trying to organize or control everything. As a former stage manager, I was trained to rely on plans and schedules, where everything followed a precise call book. But life, as Benny reminded me with a blank document titled “New Call Book,” doesn’t follow a script. He told me, “Your future isn’t written, and you can’t plan what’s next in a constantly changing life.” Annie concluded, “It’s back to Daisy’s advice. You should live the way Tena is discovering how to live. By just being.”

Tena walked up to me, “asking” to be picked up, and then melted into my lap. So, I’ll just sit, then.