By Robert McCool
I have been so fortunate in my life so far that I have had opportunities to share my love of books and the written word with the readers of this column on a semi-regular basis.
I began to write for the Icon when founder Fred Steiner asked me to review books that I liked, and I chose those contemporary popular fiction ones that I believed had a quality or message that meant something important to our current time and circumstances. I was lucky to find those books on the new books shelf of my local library, and sometimes I took the suggestions of my fellow book lovers. It was a joy to bring the book alive with my reviews, and I actually managed to read and write about each book in a week's time. That was how much I enjoyed the task.
When the new owner of the Icon took over, she allowed me to keep this column and even encouraged my writing. And the Icon flourishes under her management. I believe that I had more interested readers that followed me then. The support that I received made me want to write better and more relevant reviews than I had ever done before.
I did get better, with the last two articles being the best things I have ever written. But they were better because they were so personal and heartfelt. However, they weren't really about books anymore. They were an expression of a life-changing event that altered how I perceived the column and my ability to write it as I had before.
Once again I was supported by the Icon even though I was far away from any kind of book review. You see, I could no longer read with any critical thinking, nor remember what I wanted to say that would make any kind of sense.
In the last two articles I mentioned that I had been diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease six months ago. The illness had already progressed far before I went to a neurologist because of the physical symptoms, and I needed medication to function. The doctor who treated me told me nothing at all about what to expect to happen to me, nor how to deal with it in the future.
I was simply terrified, afraid that I had little time left before I would die. I said goodbye to my family and prepared my wife for what little time I had left. The intense fear I felt grew in me until I couldn't function at all. I didn't know where to go to learn what was happening to me.
That was when I discovered an online buddy system of fellow sufferers and the resources of the local library's books available concerning Parkinson's.
I read even with my difficulty to follow and remember the material. I asked the questions that were answered by those who lived and thrived throughout their challenges.
I quit pitying myself and thought about the future for the first time. That was the turning point that brought me to the point of this overlong message I'm writing to you now.
This may not have anything to do with books yet, but it allows me to look forward to a time when I can resume my original purpose with this column. I no longer see this space as a place to talk about my situation. I am, and will be a reader, because I will be able to again.
But this article is about the other side of sickness, instead of the fear and sorrow which accompany it. And there is another side of equal importance to regained health.
You see, serious illness is a dark passage that blinds one to life itself. Darker than the coldest night. Dark enough to confuse one as to which direction to seek escape.
What I found in the darkest hour was a small light, small as a firefly's flicker, that I had lost as I had lost my way to life. By that firefly's direction I regained the sense to follow it out of the black sorrow I felt for myself.
That small light was hope. It was given to me by my wife, the love of my life, and a recognition that if she believed in me I still meant something. It was given to me by an increased ability to cope with small things like cooking without burning the house down. I found it because I could walk again with a cane, but without the risk of a fall. I discovered it in other people who manage life day by day, regardless of their circumstances or failings. I found hope because I have the greatest dog in the world.
Hope. A simple thing you find inside. Something that will save your life, that will light the darkness that is the fear you feel. I don't know how to discover it from out of nowhere, and I never had a sudden moment when life's promise became clear. But it was somewhere in the despair, waiting for me to wake up and see it. No matter whether we want to give up or give in, or it's impossible to believe in, hope is in us if we are lucky enough to make it past thinking there is nothing for us anymore. There will be hope for you.
I will no longer waste ink imposing upon readers the thought that I am somehow damaged enough to feel sorry for. I am a reader first, without any doubt. I will review books that are worth reading for their quality. I will keep that firefly alive inside. See you in the future.
