Integration

Getting out of the plane in Richmond yesterday morning, I slipped and fell and would have wound up in the river had not Sean, the pilot, caught me so I was saved from a very wet and miserable few hours in Vancouver and my day went excellently.

I met Bruce for breakfast, did my errands and arrived in perfect time for my appointment with Dr. Shoja. I had real trouble getting going but once I did, there was no stopping me; I was more animated than I recall being ever before. I never stopped talking.

But every time I used the word “stopping” — as in stopping seeing her regularly — I always qualified it. Every single time I used the word I always added, “with the option to return.” She know that’s important to me and she assured me that option exists for the rest of my life.

My enthusiasm to stop and my ability to it (with the option to return) comes from one thing, I told her: “Integration” It was my ‘word of the day’ and theme for the session, I said. I told her that our two years of conversations have me feeling “integrated.”

I used to feel that there was a Chris.1 (me prior to my diagnosis) and that I’d become Chris.2 (a stuttering, seizing Chris) but that’s over. Now I feel like the same person, just different and with two symptoms I can’t control but understand. But I like who I am and I’m actually glad my voice “broke” and I got my diagnosis.

Why? Because I live on Gabriola; I live in a park in a comfortable, lovely home with a huge yard, a studio and hot tub and I have three loving, wonderful pets. And I credit my diagnosis and the insight into my condition from Dr. S. for the move and my resultant happiness with my life.

I’ve written here before of the incredible power and beauty of acceptance and difference and the love it brings. The first time was when Sahara was born with all her genetic deficiencies and again when I found out that the reason I was blessed with Leon was because the black markings in his mouth “ruined” [not my word] the show potential of an otherwise perfect Orange Burmese.”

The same applies to me: I’ve come to love my stutter because it’s a talisman of the huge and positive shift in my life — a talisman of integration and of my decision to move to this paradise called Pinecone Park.

I don’t love the seizures though and never will.

Now if I could just get Sheba’s diarrhea to stop life would be perfect. Yes, there was more this morning — but less and on the mat I put out to receive it. As long as there’s progress, it’s all good.