A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Future: Twists and Turns and Lessons Learned (6 page)

Whatever steps have been taken to preserve the happiness and lifestyle of the Bhutanese people, it’s very clear to the visitor that it’s working. The country is both a monarchy and a democracy, and I spoke to many who expressed a love for their home and a gratitude to their king and countrymen. All due respect to Uncle Walt, but this is the true Magic Kingdom, the mythical Shangri-La made real. And that leads me to the part of the story that I alluded to earlier.

By the second day in the country, I noticed a marked diminishment of the kind of symptoms I generally wake up to every day. They eventually reappeared shortly after breakfast, but only very mildly, and it was well past noon before I felt compelled to take any L-Dopa (PD meds). Over the next few days, we traveled in and around the countryside, to schools and government buildings, farms and festivals, and while I wouldn’t say that PD was completely gone and I was back to normal (if I can even remember what normal felt like), something was definitely happening. I waded through rice paddies, sat cross-legged for hours while taking a meal with local families, and wandered through Thimphu’s crowded marketplace, investigating the myriad sights, sounds, and smells. I was able to do all this in inexplicably effortless fashion.

On the penultimate day of the trip, our producers and camera crew scheduled a demanding three-to four-mile hike up a local mountain to film one of Bhutan’s most important religious sites, a monastery they call “Tiger’s Nest.” Originally, the idea was to capture background footage, what we call “B-roll,” but I surprised myself by volunteering to come along. A week earlier, the prospect of successfully completing such a hike would have been optimistic even for me, but the physical change in me had been that dramatic.

Armed with a walking stick and accompanied by my intrepid guide, Tshewang, I set off on a slow and steady pace up the steep, winding trails. Just short of the monastery site, a flutter of prayer flags announced a small teahouse clinging to the mountainside. One of our cameramen trained his lens on me, and I related, for the documentary, my happy bewilderment at what I had done and how I had been feeling during my time in the Himalayas. Maybe it was the altitude that had brought about this change, or perhaps it was the medicine that I had been given to prevent altitude sickness. Whatever it was, I was grateful, though I had no delusions that it would remain that way once I returned to the States.

On my descent, in an act of hubris inspired by my improved sense of balance and fluidity, I strayed from the marked trails and attempted a shortcut down a ninety-degree rock face. Overwhelmed by momentum, I found myself skittering down the mountainside, toward certain injury and possible death. Flashback to Mexico—only now I had the advantage of being sober. Or was it a disadvantage? Flinging myself sideways to the ground seemed the only sure way to arrest my progress. Somehow I managed the maneuver. This little flurry of excitement resulted in scrapes, bruises, and a bloodied and mangled finger.

The next day, we flew to India to make our connection back to the States, and on the plane, I noticed something disturbing. I hadn’t been able to remove my wedding ring because of the swelling, and now the cabin pressure was causing the digit to balloon and discolor even more. The wedding band was constricting to the point of strangulation. An Indian doctor, sitting in the row across the aisle, calmly informed me if I didn’t cut that ring off in the next couple of hours, they’d be cutting off my finger. And so I made a detour to the hospital in New Delhi, and after a frantic search for the correct cutting implement, the ring was removed, the finger was saved, and I was on my way home.

Almost immediately upon my return to the U.S., the Parkinson’s symptoms returned, and it was as if that mysterious and magical reprieve had never happened. But of course, it did. I carry a reminder with me every day. I only have to look down at my homely and still-misshapen ring finger on my left hand.

Of course, I also have a filmed record of the entire trip. Personally, I didn’t take a single photograph while I was there, but that’s not all that unusual for me. I suppose my aversion to snapping pictures may have something to do with shaky hands and blurry results, but there’s another reason: The act of lifting up the camera and positioning it between me and the object of my interest separates me from the experience. The memory exists on photo paper, or is stored digitally and ready for download, but the emotional resonance is lessened. It may sound strange, but I know by the time I fumble out a camera (okay, PD definitely doesn’t help), point, and shoot, I’m out of the moment. And if there’s one basic lesson I’ve learned—in fact, kids, I think this is what it all boils down to—it is the cardinal importance of this moment…right now.

I’m not suggesting we wander around slack-jawed and stupefied, stumbling from moment to moment without a process that takes into consideration history or the future. Still, what’s happened before and what may happen later can’t be as important as what’s happening now. There’s never a better time to celebrate the present. The present belongs to you.

If you’re a recent graduate or just being fitted for the robe, I’m sure there’s no shortage of people who played a part in bringing you to this moment, and who may have an interest in where you go from here. It’s reasonable. Parents, mentors, and friends are a part of your story, just as you’re a part of theirs. They have hopes and dreams that may echo or overlap your own. And there’s no reason why you can’t make room for them. But what’s happening to you right now, precisely at this instant, belongs only to you.

Own it.

Recovering alcoholics have an expression: “If you have one foot in yesterday and one foot in tomorrow, you’re pissing all over today.” With all that’s happened, it’s been liberating to understand that I don’t have to carry the weight of all my disappointments or expectations. Sometimes it just is what it is. I can accept that.

This is your moment. Let someone else take the picture…just smile.

T
HE
B
EGINNING
…F
INALLY

COMMENCEMENT ADDRESSES USUALLY WRAP UP WITH
some broad sweeping statements about what to expect along the wide open road that stretches out in front of you. I’d love to do that, but I am not familiar with the stretch of highway you’ll be traveling. I can only pass along notes from the route I’ve traveled. Forgive me for another gratuitous
Back to the Future
reference, but I can almost hear some of you out there rejecting the road analogy altogether: “Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads!”

For a long time, as a high school dropout I considered my education to be incomplete, riddled with holes, gaps to be filled by lessons I hadn’t shown up to receive. One crucial bit of wisdom that I did arrive at eventually was this: One’s education is never complete. A missed opportunity doesn’t preclude the possibility of new opportunities, or even better ones.

I think I benefited from being equal parts ambitious and curious. And of the two, curiosity has served me best. It’s all very well to be absolutely certain, as I was when I dropped out of high school, about what you want to achieve or where you want to be in life. That’s ambition. That’s great. But nobody gets a straight shot to the top. Life is not linear. There will be detours along the way. For the curious, new clues will await at every turn and may keep pointing toward the chosen destination. Or maybe you’ll stumble upon information that will inspire you to change course altogether, delivering you to a future you never could have imagined.

I credit my curiosity, in fact, with rescuing me from the edge of an abyss. Initially, my anxiety and confusion over my diagnosis of early onset Parkinson’s disease had shut me down, and I felt overwhelmed by the desire to withdraw, to retreat from my situation. Once I accepted reality—
It is what it is
—my curiosity took over. I started to ask very simple questions.
What is Parkinson’s, exactly? How is it affecting me? How is it affecting others?
And the scope of my inquiry widened:
Does this change how I feel about myself? Does it change how others feel about me? Does that really matter? Is what anyone else thinks of me really any of my business? Who are these Parkinson’s patients that make up this community I find myself a part of, and what can I learn from them? Can we do something to help ourselves? Can I personally do something?

You see where this detour led. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it saved my ass. When you move out of your comfort zone and interact with people you might not have otherwise, the results can be compelling. I’m thinking about the scientists I’ve met during my work with the Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson’s Research. I remember being briefed once by an esteemed clinical researcher on the potential use of trophic factors in neurological repair. After admitting that I didn’t understand a word of what he just said, I told him, “If I’m in a room full of actors, odds are I’ve got a pretty good shot of being one of the smartest people in the room. But if I’m in a room full of neuroscientists, I think it’s best if I just nod and take notes.” Truth is, in a span of maybe a couple of years, I had gone from talking to my agent on a cellular phone to discussing brain chemistry with cellular biologists.

Like I said, I’m not much for advice. But I’ll leave you with a quick review. Being in control of your own destiny is a myth—and wouldn’t be half as much fun anyway. Pay attention to what’s happening around you. Read the book before you see the movie. Remember, though you, alone, are responsible for your own happiness, it’s still okay to feel responsible for someone else’s.

Live to learn.

—Michael J. Fox
New York City

ALSO BY
MICHAEL J. FOX

Lucky Man

Always Looking Up

Copyright

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FUTURE
. Copyright © 2010 Michael J. Fox. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.

Adobe Digital Edition February 2010 ISBN: 978-1-4013-9508-7

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