I had a boyfriend in the eighth grade and was new to a town where there were seldom new people. He was dear and sweet with large blue eyes and long curly eyelashes. His family was prominent, mine was not, his was old money, mine was no money. He was the first person who ever loved me and I was fourteen and incapable of loving at any level. Our romantic relationship terminated before the school year was out but we managed, after some adjusting, to remain very close friends. He was a wounded child, the victim of a toxic childhood riddled with abuse and neglect and I felt the need to watch over him. He ran away once to follow the PGA Tour and was gone for weeks. No one reported him missing.

I was fragile in my own right in those days, the product of a gypsy childhood. Always the new one, never quite fitting in, never quite adjusting to the new environment. He was my entrée I was his stability. We remained close all through high school. He went east for a substantial education, I stayed nearby for a mediocre one. We both married, he divorced, I did not, but we lost contact and that wonderful support we gave each other without condition. That was forty years ago.

Last summer we accidently reconnected in an odd culmination of events neither of us could have imagined much less engineered. With that reconnection began a correspondence that has continued almost daily until now. I told him early on of my Parkinson’s diagnosis and he told me of his recent battle with depression. We have been as honest as two people who have not seen each other in nearly half a century can be.

Now, with the approval of my husband of 36 years I have invited him for a visit. He still has siblings here but their lives are riddled with tragedy so I invited him and he accepted.

Now here’s my quandary, How do I tell him before he arrives of how Parkinson’s Disease has robbed me of my youth and vigor? But, you say, I must be on up there as I have been married 36 years, and there is some truth in that. I am not young anymore but I am not as old as my shuffling gait and gravely voice would indicate. How do I bring up how difficult walking is for me now and the fact that I won’t be cooking while he is here because I have no facility with a knife? How do I tell him I can no longer do anything with my hair on my own or apply make up with any success? What is the order of words that one uses to begin this conversation? Or, do I just stand mute and wait to see the shocked expression when he arrives, hitting him blind-sided and without any warning at all? While this is no longer a romantic attachment it was once and I still have a few shreds of vanity that stick to my personality regardless of my efforts to the contrary. I am so excited about seeing this dear friend again but I am also dreading those first few moments, until we recover ourselves and can move on.

Can someone tell me how to prepare him or myself for that first encounter after all these years? I’m not really as superficial as I sound, or perhaps I am. I just wish we could do this in the dark, like the correspondence has been. That way the memories wouldn’t have to be so disturbed.

This is the problem with all people we haven't seen in years. No one stays the same. I've also thought about the tremor problem. Even people we send pictures to will not be prepared for the tremor.

I would say to be yourself. Enjoy your visit. I don't know how to ease the first moments. Sometimes you just have to jump in.

Hi Bunny, How about copying the 2nd to last paragraph starting with "I am not young anymore..." (leaving out the parts of personal exposure you do not wish to include) and sending it to him? How eloquent and heartfilled your post. I am sure your old friend will feel the same way. And you do not sound superficial by any measure of which I am aware. madelyn

hello dear one,
you can say it with a poem - as I love poetry
here is one famous example...

Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early
Childhood
by William Wordsworth.


What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

peace to your ♥

I did very nearly as you suggested Madelyn, jumping right in. I wish I had seen the poem first and I would have encluded it as well.

Now we'll just have to wait and see.
Thank you all for responding.
bunny

Best of luck to you, Bunny. Somehow I don't think you will need it in this instance. and Tena, you quoted my favorite passage from my favorite poem, which I know does not distinguish me and my tastes in poetry, just thought I would share that.

I think it's a very good thing that you pre-warned him, Bunny. I have startled the heck out of a couple of friends that I hadn't seen in awhile - they commented that I seemed to be a bit stiff and I blind-sided them by blurting out that I had PD. One said "no, you don't" and then spent the rest of the holiday apologizing. The other tried to talk around it the whole time we were together. Not comfortable, and I've learned my lesson. Easier for people to find out what you're like in writing or over the phone, and then they don't have to feel bad about their reaction.

Hope you have a wonderful visit, it sounds like a very special friendship.

I received a very touching reply where he said he knew what to expect and that it was of no consequence anyway as he could tell from our correspondence that I was me.

I am deeply in all your debt for the advice. I feel freed now to look forward, without apprehension, to the visit.

bunny