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Other Writings

Parkinson's

My life changed in 2018 when my new neurologist confirmed that I had Parkinson’s Disease (PD). My kids had noticed something months earlier. They thought I had suffered a stroke They insisted that I see a doctor. My General Practitioner knew right away. Parkinson’s.

A few months later, an even newer neurologist confirmed that I also had myasthenia gravis (MG) and I needed plasmapheresis. Combining these two diseases meant that I needed Physical Therapy to combat my symptoms:

  • Dragging the right leg; 
  • Getting my right arm stuck in a Napoleonic pose;
  • Falling down stairs;
  • Experiencing ptosis in both eyes;
  • And, having difficulty talking.


I started taking 18 pills per day (3 every 4 hours + 6 others). Mainly dopamine. I joined rock steady boxing.  I improved.  I even lived in my basement for 18 months to avoid Covid. I regressed a bit and gained weight.

In June 2021, things got worse. I learned that my job would end on 12/31/21. I lost two friends to Covid and two other friends to different diseases. I stayed in the basement and gained more weight.

Yet, one door closed and another one opened.  I still had my part-time job as an adjunct online English instructor at Loyola University ,and I claimed social security.  I joined Jenny Craig and lost 45 pounds.  I submitted my book of poems to Atmosphere Press, who will publish Almost a Memoir on August 9, 2022.

I spent three months in Phoenix with my son, his fiancée, and her non-English speaking Serbian grandfather. (We became friends via Google Translate.) I travelled to Sedona, competed in a poetry slam,  and met other poets and artists in what I would describe as a sacred part of the country. My experience verified a thesis argued by Bio News columnist Dr. C. Resilience and sacredness are helping me live with PD and MG. Now, my life style includes:

  • Walking 10,000 steps per day
  • Doing at-home PT.
  • Making time for mindfulness and reiki.
  • Practicing daily at a driving range.
  • Playing 54 holes of golf per week. 
    • I will resume Rock Steady Boxing soon. 
  • Writing 24 new poems,
    • I’ve also begun writing a play.
  • Continuing to teach literature and creative writing online at Loyola.
    • I will also teach 2 new classes (face-to-face)  at the College of Lake County (CLC) in the Fall term. 


Life is good right now.  None of this would be possible, though, without the support of my wife, my children, their spouses, my sister and brother-in-law, my wife’s family, and all of my many friends and relatives. I would like to help other PD and MG patients by advocating for a cure to these debilitating diseases.

I know there are many talented poets, writers, artists, musicians, and actors who counteract the effects of PD and MG with their creativity. I invite you to send me a message on the Contact option on this web site. I would love to hear from you.

M.C. Rydel

Myasthenia Gravis

What is myasthenia gravis?

As reported by the Cleveland Clinic web site, Myasthenia gravis (MG) is an autoimmune disease that causes the body’s immune system to attack its own healthy parts by mistake . MG affects the communication between nerves and muscles (the neuromuscular junction).

“People with MG lose the ability to control muscles voluntarily. They experience muscle weakness and fatigue of various severity. They may not be able to move muscles in the eyes, face, neck, and limbs (My Cleveland Clinic.org) I first experienced MG driving home from work when my eyelids involuntarily shut while I was going west at 50 mph on Lake-Cook Road in Northbrook, Illinois.

I drove one-handed for several miles as my second hand propped open one eye. I pulled into a mall parking lot. I took a nap until sunset and made it home in one piece. The next day, I contacted my Parkinson’s neurologist. He introduced me to MG.

What are the types of myasthenia gravis?

Two types of MG exist.

  • Ocular MG :  Two different muscles open and close your eyelids. MG attacks these muscles and causes the eyelids to droop or even close.
  • Generalized MG: “Nearly half of people with ocular MG evolve into the generalized form within two years of the first symptom. This form of MG attacks the face, neck, arms, legs,and throat. (Patients) find it difficult to speak or swallow, lift (their) arms over your head, stand up from a seated position, walk long distances, and climb stairs.


I counter-attack MG every day by walking 10,000 steps, playing golf, and climbing stairs with caution and resolve. Everyone in my family tells me to avoid spiral staircases in October.(Just kidding… read the book.)

Where do I go from here?

Most MG’ers avoid hot weather, but I have thrived in Arizona during the winter and in Chicago over the summer. So, here’s what I do:

  • Take my MG medicine three times per day.
  • Exercise daily. Eat my vegetables. Eat healthy carbs.
  • Help Creative Writing students with their poems.
  • Continue to write at least one new poem per week.
  • Attend online Zoom poetry open mic’s.
  • Prepare for the August 9th release of Almost a Memoir.


Just for fun, let’s end with a trivia question. What’s the name of the movie in which Cary Grant takes Marilyn Monroe for a joy ride in a 1950 MG? Trust me. He doesn’t take a nap in a mall parking lot. Type your guess in the Contact page.

New Poetry

80 Days With Angels

I found the evidence in Arizona.
Among the rocks, beneath the thorns,
Covered by flowering red bushes,
Your Connecticut driver’s license
Tossed out of a car, landing here:
Six foot one. 185 pounds. Brown eyes.
Black hair. Movie star looks.
Both mother and father.
Woman and Jehovah.

I never believed in Jehovah.
Before I came to the desert.
The valley fills itself with voices.
The sun stares through stained glass.
Red rocks leak energy around us.
I search for their name on my laptop.
No record. No source. Nothing is there.

Forty days of fasting just to get here.
I howl at the Pink Moon Saloon.
Coyotes and ravens like bouncers.
It’s my turn to turn my back to the city.
Refuse to turn stone into bread,
Or turn wind into angels.

Still, I would love to fall into their arms
Feel their fingertips save me.
But I guess I’m just not like you.
I’m here for another 40 days.
The only thing going back home
Turns out to be your lost driver’s license
Your name and address
Handwritten on an envelope

Return to sender, address unknown,
No such number. No such zone.
This is like looking for Elvis
In a room full of Elvises.
Yet I’ve never been more sure
That you are here.
You are as certain as an exploding sun,
As surprising as music on a SETI array,
As fresh as the scent of ginger
That explodes out of my handful of manna.
When you are as new as the deep sleep of an infant
With my fingers behind your head,
It’s time to come down from the mountain,
Head back to the bricks and snow up north,
Learn my lines for the second act;
Utter a word that has never been said.

Noah

Noah learned to swim by his first birthday.
Even hold his breath and float on his back.

When he turned ten, animals would walk
Right up to him – birds would perch –
Fish come to the surface.

His adolescence lasted a hundred years.
He took decades to learn carpentry,
Sew sails, master a sextant, cook for many.

Noah loves being a bachelor
In this violent, decadent time
Of mass shootings and wickedness.

So, he married late, had three sons
As an old man. Took on a great adventure
Before dying from natural causes.

It was baby Noah who gave everything away.
Precocious, joyful, ready to explain everything.
He measured his young life in arms-lengths,

And he saved us all from drowning
And kept us all alive to live family dramas

Until some super volcano wipes the prairies
Clean off the surface of the planet

With waves of hot ash – with hot ash
Making us nostalgic for storms and Noah’s flood.

What Lazarus Saw

For John 11

Could anyone else spend four days
In Paradise and keep quiet about it?
Imagine Heaven as a Dolomite villa,
With a view of the snowy peaks,

A walk down the hills to the vineyards,
An evening with a beloved in a piazza,
Two am espresso and poetry in the only open café,
Asleep on a cloud like a tussled sheet and pillow,

But Heaven wasn’t ready for Lazarus:
Plain marble rooms for a deity;
Barracks for angels; bivouacs left by demons.
(The millennia of human memories — not yet unleashed

As icons by crusaders, martyrs, and your ordinary dead.)
Lazarus saw an empty Heaven waiting for its first Easter.
No one yet allowed to choose his next life, as swan or swami,
Leaving paradise behind like silenced footsteps and broken chains.

By day four, he was ready to come back.
The first person he saw was the Nazarene.
They stunk up the mausoleum, discarded the bandages,
Dined with his sisters, and frightened the Pharisees.

Dying once wasn’t enough for them.
They conspired like collaborators to an invasion
To identify and assassinate important Jews.
Lazarus became part of the diaspora.

Stories kept him alive
Long enough to find Cyprus and blend in.
It was hard to forsake instant celebrity,
And avoid the adoration of Arabs, Romans, and Greeks,

Condemned as a charlatan; compared to Iscariot hanged,
The only thing left for him, by the end, were his four days.
Each day longer than his second death bed.
Each day no longer on the tour.

Getting lost in my own city

I never knew that the trees, awnings, and canopied
Roofs on my walk to the “L” would keep me dry
Like a rain forest hidden in my city.

The Red-Line train filled with White Sox fans
Stopped at every stop, each one blowing off
Fireworks, loud enough to make me forget the rain.

Last night’s party in the suburbs had four of everything:
Foursomes of golfers with gray hair,
Four-year-old kids running in a dangerous circle,
Their tiny hands clutching lit sparklers
As pairs of two-year-old siblings cried.

Four rows of spinning pinwheels.
Four grills for ribs, chicken, hot dogs, and steaks.
Four rounds of fireworks with a thousand-dollar grand finale
Four young mothers, who brought their au pairs,
And a midnight countdown to the Fourth of July,
Which I had never seen before,
Despite all of my time with the privileged few.

Chicago got off easy this holiday weekend:
Only 9 dead and 52 wounded
Compared to last year’s 19 and 101.

That doesn’t count Highland Park, though,
The 4th of July parade, where a gunman
Climbed a ladder to a roof, took his rifle
And murdered Kevin and Irina shielding their child
And murdered Katherine whose ashes were scattered on a beach
And murdered Jacquelyn who loved her synagogue
And murdered Stephen who loved museums
And murdered Nicolas who was visiting from Mexico
And murdered Eduardo whose wife was shot and survived.

The parade route is still blocked with chairs,
Baby strollers, and blankets stained with blood.

The rain made its way to Indiana.
The White Sox hit into a triple play
And lost to the Twins in extra innings.

We could not find the right exit
From the expressway to Lake Shore Drive
And found ourselves alone in Canaryville.

Even the compass did not work.
The rain became a storm and then a flood.
My friend drove true north after midnight
Still lost. Still in our city. On the 5th of July.