The Many Faces of Fog
by Susan Scarlett
Disguising the truth of its power, a wisp of pure white fog teases me, inviting me to come and play. It tells me it knows lots of games and suggests that we start with "You.” I'm confused; what is this, really, and why is it here?
I don't see the danger yet. I don't feel it wrapping itself around me, taking hold of my physical and emotional freedoms. An inconsistent yet persistent drip drip drip of symptoms, new ones all the time, overwhelms me. This fog is relentless, penetrating deep into my brain, insisting on unnatural movements while resisting natural ones.
Seeking help and answers, the fog takes over, rendering my sight and hearing useless. As I learn its dreaded name – Parkinson's – I am enveloped in drenching wet fear. This is a lifetime sentence. No longer pure and white, the fog is now dark and heavy. I am bewildered and shaking and yet my senses – sight, hearing, and especially common sense – come back to life and begin to warm me up. A familiar team surrounds me, giving me medication, exercise, information, and hope. It’s my husband, my doctor, and my teachers – my Fog Busters. (“Who you gonna call?”) Naming them makes me laugh and heaven knows, I haven't laughed for a while.
I do everything the Fog Busters ask me to do and I start to feel better. The paralyzing brain fog begins to break up and I realize that fog has many faces, not all of which are threatening. This revelation makes me curious and gives me an opening to learn more about fog, and maybe even to understand why it is here.
The next thing I know, one of my teachers encourages me to play a game called “Mind Putty”, and asks me to "grab" something out of thin air and describe what I see. I don't get it. Looking at my empty hand and trying to describe what I see there is a bizarre request, confusing at best. What I see in my hand seems like nothing, and I tell him it's nothing, like blank white fog. The minute he says "then describe it as fog", I realize the freedom this game gives me. Everything is possible! Accepting that I see fog in my hand offers me the chance to give myself and others the gifts of play, fun, and connection, all while learning to face fears and trust the unknown.
Fog morphs! Who knew? One minute it is a frightening unknown and the next minute, it’s a friendly companion. Sometimes it challenges the best of me, and tonight, it throws a cloak of pure apathy over me. I’ve never felt like this, empty of anything, barely moving, trapped and afraid. I do nothing other than stare into space. Nothing penetrates. Time barely moves.
think about my Fog Busters and wonder if they could help me escape this flat, dull existence. Who knows? It’s probably not worth reaching out to them. What’s the point? There is none, not really. I’ve got Parkinson’s, damn it, and it’s progressive and degenerative. New symptoms show up all the time, like this one. It’s hard to live in joy with a future like this.
Eventually, in the midst of all that nothingness, big winds of change blow in. They scatter the fog and allow a bit of light to break through. While I’m still aimlessly wandering around, I hear a whisper of some sort. Is it the wind? Is it the fog? I stop, I stand really still, and I listen. There it is again, the same message, and this time I hear it clearly: "Get busy living or get busy dying".
I am scared silly. I’ve been stuck in this apathy for so long that I don’t know what to do. I don’t have it in me to get busy doing anything. All I know is sadness and helplessness, and that’s terrifying; it’s keeping me stuck and that means dying. The only way not to die is to move, and I search within for what it is that I need. What will it take to "get busy living"? What motivates me? Who am I underneath all this apathy? How do I help myself?
Oh, right: I write! That’s always been my salvation, the best way I’ve found to uncover my deepest fears and truths. Can I possibly write now, here in the midst of this apathy? I must. Truly, I must. That’s my escape! The lure of a good metaphor begins to pull me up out of this funk and I feel myself frantically searching for the one which will embody all that I am feeling and thinking the lightness and the dark, the coldness and the warmth, the prison and the escape. It’s fog, of course. The metaphor of fog; to me, fog is the harbinger of change. Naming it fosters an urgency, a need to get going, and from that comes hope. Finding my metaphor brought me purpose, focus, and energy. Apathy, be gone!