The Inevitable Cull of Connections

There was a pivotal, yet somewhat inevitable crossroads juncture that I encountered in my Parkinson’s "journey." The culling of my social connections.

The enormity of the juggernaut diagnosis that I encountered led to a rude awakening and forced me to cut the proverbial wheat from the chafe. Although it was a bitter experience at the time, I am sincerely grateful for the clarity it brought.

Friendships before diagnosis

Prior to receiving the diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease, I willingly admit that I operated with a certain degree of naivety and complacency. I had cultivated a vibrant array of social connections and I was thus comfortably cocooned by a familiar and friendly family of folk.

For me, they were a fun-loving and eclectic community, comprised of my friends, my colleagues, and my family. They nourished and sustained me in a way that enabled me to flourish and thrive.

Losing relationships

I was in my 20s, young and carefree. Life was good. I was a gregarious, social animal seeking and thriving off the buzz and quiet comfort that social solidarity provides.

Somewhat naively, I interpreted and believed that the myriad of relationships around me were durable and robust. I felt they would prove to be life-long unions of commitment and friendship.

However, when my health deteriorated and I was no longer the independent and self-assured person I had been prior to Parkinson’s, I was shockingly greeted by an exodus in my social landscape.

Trying to grieve

At the time, this hurt. But I have since learned and accepted that this is a very common and normal occurrence for many people affected by chronic health conditions.

Admittedly, this unfortunate circumstance of events caused me much pain and grief in subsequent years after my diagnosis. Yet, at the time I was too busy trying to manage the magnitude of complex neurodegenerative symptoms that I had begun experiencing.

I was unable to fully process the true significance of the loss I had encountered. More importantly, unbeknownst to myself, I was forced to endure layers of grief and mourning.

The layers of loss

For me, being diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease resulted in a loss of:

1. Identity
2. Physical ability
3. Career
4. Financial autonomy
5. Community and connection

The terrain of my reality changed forever. Sadly, my carefully cultivated social connections were unable to withstand the seismic shock of the diagnosis.

So, very suddenly I found myself severely disabled and severely isolated. I severed about 90 percent of my social acquaintances around the time of being diagnosed.

The beauty of clarity

When tragedy befell me, I had 2 choices. Firstly, I could choose to have been burned, marred, and tarnished for the rest of my life by the unfortunate series of events.

Or alternatively, I could seek the hidden beauty (and wisdom) from the tragedy. Admittedly, the latter is the harder option, but it is the more viable, nurturing choice.

I was forced to experience a quasi-epiphany with the demise of my social connections. While mourning the loss of old friendships, I was also afforded the opportunity to re-evaluate and recalibrate what I valued and needed in my social unions.

In my experience, it proved to be a hidden blessing because the ultimate death and demise of my relationships forced me to be more resilient and wise.

The lessons it taught me

The culling of my connections provided me with pivotal life lessons. This experience enabled me to recognize the impermanence of life. Everything changes. I knew this from my years teaching Buddhism to secondary school students. But reading words in a textbook can never compare to experiencing something first-hand.

It taught me that when fostering future social connections, it was imperative to prioritize quality over quantity. For instance, 10 flaky, unreliable friends would never be comparable to 1 solid, dependable, and fervently loyal friend.

Valuing your own company

Also, my social connections, post-diagnosis must be worthy of my time and effort. I perceive my words, time, and company as precious now. More so than before. Things that are easy for others are not necessarily easy for me.

Therefore, the effort I expend in relationships must be worth it. The diagnosis of disability that I deal with daily means that I have a limited, finite number of resources at my disposal. I cannot afford to be frivolous with my remaining dopamine levels.

So, I now perceive most social interactions to be an investment of my commodities of time and effort. Thus, only the best of my social company receives the best of me now.