Telling Time

Yesterday, I received an email from an ex-coworker whom I greatly admire - let's call him Fred.  During our time of working for the same company, I saw Fred achieve great success in his field.  I also noticed he had an extraordinary memory - he seemed to know the names of everyone's children, for instance - and he always had time to ask you how things were going outside of the work environment.  Fred made a positive impression on me because, not only was he pleasant to work with, but he was always a very genuine person.  Seeing Fred achieve - and surpass - expectations was a real joy.  Basically, Fred was "one of the good guys".

So in Fred's email, which was sent to a LOT of people, he explained that it was with mixed feelings that he was announcing his departure from the company.  Fred had been there close to ten years, and I read his "goodbye" notice with a smile on my face, knowing wherever he was going, success would follow.

I decided to reply to just Fred and a handful of our ex-coworkers.  In my reply, I wished Fred well and expressed my thanks for what I consider to be one of my favorite work experiences, thanks to - in no small part - having him as a coworker.  That, I figured, was that.

Not long after I hit "send", I received a note from one of the co-workers I'd cc'd on my message - let's call him Bill.  It read, in short, that Bill felt that Fred's departure marked a significant time was ending and then went on to ask what - and how - I was doing.  I thought for more than a few moments about how I'd possibly update someone on my life since ... well, basically from 2009 onwards.  I wanted to include my life inside and outside of work, but found myself spending the most time editing my inclusion of sharing my Parkinson's diagnosis.

I'd write - then delete - then review, knowing how I WANTED it to read, but not feeling as though I was there yet.  It went from far to casual of a sentence ("Oh - and get this, Bill - I have Parkinson's!") to forced wittiness ("Guess I wasn't shaking from too many mochas after all") to stupidly dramatic ("I  hope this won't come as too much of a shock and there's really no delicate way to write it").  Sometimes it read as apologetic ("I feel as though I'm being less-than-forthcoming so forgive me in advance for that but you deserve to know") and other times it was too stark ("Bill, you may have heard I have Parkinson's, which is true.  Don't really know what else to say about that.").

I settled on a few sentences that I decided had a good balance of the emotions I'd experienced when I was diagnosed ... shock, disbelief, acceptance, and where I'm at today, which is basically just living with it.  I hit the "enter" key a couple of times and started a new paragraph writing about my extended family and asking Bill about his life since 2009.

I finished the email with a line of assurance that I was doing very well and felt better than I have in many years, and added that it was possible that my response to a seemingly basic question created more questions than answers.  I wrote that I was "still not easily rattled" and that if he had more questions, that'd be alright.

And, while it may not have been the most graceful thing I've ever written, I believe it struck the right chord.  At least now when old friends want to catch up, I'll feel comfortable enough with my life to give them a glimpse of who I am ... all of who I am ... in 2012.