No film has ever touched me more deeply than Ingmar Bergman’s Cries and Whispers, which portrays the reunion of three sisters, one of whom (Harriet Andersson) is dying of cancer. She is nursed through her agony by a servant (Kari Sylwan) who shows her more humanity than her unhappy siblings. Sylwan cradling Andersson to her breast is, for me, an indelible image, much as a passage from Andersson’s diary contains an ineradicably moving line: “I feel profoundly grateful to my life, which gives me so much.”
Bergman’s meditation on suffering was appealing for obvious reasons. Though I was only a teenager when I first saw Cries and Whispers, my life had been dominated by physical pain that I knew would continue in one form or another until the death I sometimes wished for. Despite those travails, I often felt — and still feel — indescribably thankful for my life, no matter its complexities or disappointments. Why, then, am I so terrible at expressing it? There are times I suspect I’m overly grateful and settle for less than I’m worth, but just as frequently I’m noticeably gratitude-deficient.
This has been a tough year for gratitude — a tough last few years, altogether. The relief I felt in June at finally knowing what was wrong with my arm, neck, and sleep quickly gave way to a tsunami of regret. It’s difficult to reconcile a belated understanding of the earliest YOPD symptoms that began plaguing me a decade ago with other events from that time in my life. Questions of how to comfortably exist within a body that’s already cost me so much have always been hard to answer. Parkinson’s added an unfathomable dimension to that.
Practically speaking, I know how lucky I am. There’s a roof over my head, food in the kitchen, and enough money in the bank that I won’t have to choose between the gas bill or prescription medication this winter. There are people who love me, even when I’m not entirely sure why, and unlike many who experienced similarly scarring childhoods, I had a strong enough sense of self to keep from getting lost. Those are not small things, but lasting personal satisfaction remains frustratingly elusive.
Imagine standing before the sort of balance scale we associate with the scales of justice, with two plates equidistant from a fulcrum. On one plate you place your greatest achievements, on the other your most notable failures. One plate is probably higher the other, but how you measure the difference is a matter of perspective. Sometimes my perspective annoys even me. This Thanksgiving my thoughts will inevitably turn, at least for a moment, to people and things I’ve lost and dreams that will never come true. But I will also take stock of, and celebrate, what I still have, and the joy it brings to my life — and I’ll remind myself to repeat that ritual more often than once a year.