My dad, Max, is in his early 60s. More than 15 years ago he was diagnosed with early onset Parkinsonās disease. Since then his illness has progressed, affecting his mobility and making ordinary tasks, like walking, increasingly difficult.
My dad is softly spoken and endlessly kind but beneath his gentle exterior is a steely determination. Perhaps this comes from being the son of a sole survivor of the Holocaust. Growing up he was taught that people donāt get to choose the hardships life places before us but we can choose how we react to these challenges.
Parkinsonās is a cruel degenerative disease. It slowly takes many things away: your independence, your confidence in your own body, your ability to work.
My dad has never pretended his disease is easy. There are days when his body simply refuses to cooperate. Yet when he was diagnosed, he made the decision to not let grief and anger consume him nor let Parkinsonās disease become the defining story of his life.
There is a Yiddish expression that he lives by: Tracht gut, vet zein gut ā Think good, and it will be good.
This expression does not mean that optimism changes what happens to us. Rather, it means that with hope and positive thinking we can change how we experience what happens to us and how we respond to it.
My dad is a man of deep faith and believes that nothing in this world is random. He has taught me that every person, regardless of circumstance, still has something good and worthwhile to contribute to the world and the people around them.
Modern psychology has found that one of the most reliable ways a person experiencing illness or adversity can restore a sense of agency is by performing acts of service. When we help another person, we are reminded that we are more than our suffering.
In 2018 my dad set up a charity that established one of Australiaās first non-contact boxing programs for people living with Parkinsonās disease. Twice a week, dozens of men and women gather at a local gym where they punch pads, practise their gait, laugh together and cheer each other on.
On the surface, it looks like a regular exercise class but I know that it is so much more than that. It is a community built around the conviction that even when our bodies become weaker, our capacity to strengthen another personās spirit does not diminish.
For the duration of the classes, no one is sick or feeling sorry for themselves. They are all fighters who support one another through their difficult neurological illness.
One of my favourite verses in the Torah encapsulates the dogged determination that my dad exemplifies: āI have set before you life and death, a blessing and a curse. Therefore, choose life.ā
As humans, we do not choose so many of the things that shape our lives. We do not choose illness or grief or disappointment.
But choosing life is not about choosing our circumstances. It is about choosing our response to them. We choose life when we refuse to surrender to bitterness. We choose life when we build community instead of retreating into isolation. We choose life when we use whatever strength we still possess to make someone elseās burden a little lighter.
Watching my dad has made me grateful for many things that some may take for granted. I am grateful for my legs that carry me where I need to go, I am grateful for the ability to work a day job, even though sometimes work is tiring. I am grateful to be a present mum who can hug my children, run after them in the park and sit with them on the floor and read them books. I know that having a body that works properly is a huge blessing.
More than anything, my dad has taught me that life is not defined only by what happens to us. It is defined by the choices we make in response.
Parkinsonās disease has taken things from my dad but it never took away his kindness, his faith and his desire to help those around him.
