admin, Author at Shaky Leadership

admin

Change afoot! Redefining the Journey

By admin on Tuesday, November 26, 2024

For years, I’ve worn “Shaky Leadership” like a badge of honour. It was my nod to both the literal and metaphorical tremors of life—a playful take on leading despite the wobble. But today, I sit here with a steadier hand and an ever evolving understanding of my story, I find myself standing at the crossroads of reinvention.

Let me explain.

For those who’ve followed my journey, you know I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. You’ve read about the ups and downs, the battles with medication, the experimental brain surgery, and the sheer willpower it took to stay upright—physically and emotionally. I wore the diagnosis as part of my identity, like a slightly itchy sweater that I’d grown used to.

But life, as it turns out, had a plot twist in store.

After years of living under the Parkinson’s umbrella, a neurologist brave enough to delve deeper discovered something new: Functional Neurological Disorder (FND). While that might sound like something conjured up in a medical thriller, it’s actually a condition rooted in how the brain and body communicate. Imagine if your brain were sending texts, but autocorrect kept changing “walk” to “wobble” or “rest” to “panic.” That’s FND in a nutshell.

Here’s the kicker: it’s not degenerative. No “worse with time” clause. No ticking clock. No medication. No brain stimulation. Just a chance to rewire, rebuild, and reclaim my life. It brings with it great relief and hope. Though hiding in the shadows of those two attractive pillars is a surprising swarm of guilt, shame and grief. A puzzling mix of emotion to be worked through as they eat away at my identity and test my resilience. It is some of the best news a ‘Parky’ can get – yet its not a cure, it is not a return to regular life, the sharp claws of its tight grip are perhaps even more invisible than ever before.

Parkinson’s may no longer define me, but the lessons it taught me—about perseverance, adaptability, and the importance of humour—are here to stay.

And so, “Shaky Leadership” must also evolve. After all, the shaky days are (mostly) behind me. There’s still the occasional metaphorical stumble, like when I attempt to assemble IKEA furniture, but those don’t count. Days are challenging no doubt, and my body remains unpredictable, but the shaky mind for one is returning to clarity, the smog of medication and electricity is lifting. I can’t describe to you the feeling of a mind returning to your control – when you hadn’t realised it had escaped in the first place! As such, this will likely be my last post to this page, as I retire it to the archives and turnover a new leaf.

This isn’t just a name change; it’s a mindset shift. A chance to focus on stability, on resilience, on the stories of overcoming that make us human. I’m trading in the shaky badge for something that better reflects the ground I now stand on—solid, albeit occasionally uneven, footing.

Advocacy and Community

Advocacy has always been close to my heart. My experience with Parkinson’s disease gave me a profound appreciation for the challenges faced by people living with disabilities, and I’ve worked hard to advocate for awareness and support in the Parkinson’s and broader disability communities.

Now, with this new diagnosis, I find myself at the start of another journey: exploring the world of FND. I know there must be communities out there—spaces where stories are shared, insights are exchanged, and advocacy thrives—and I’m determined to find them. Over time, I hope to use my voice in this space too, just as I’ve done for Parkinson’s. Advocacy isn’t just something I do; it’s a part of who I am.

I want to thank you for supporting ‘shaky leadership’ and my journey up ‘til now and hope I can repay that support into the future. I will continue to provide what I see as absolutely crucial support for parents and schools through my role with ‘Cybersafe Families’in 2025, whilst I also turn attention to a new venture…

Sharing my skill set with Murfitt Elevation

As I pivot into this new chapter, I’m excited to begin shaping Murfitt Elevation, a space where I’ll bring together my leadership experience and my personal journey of resilience to offer something truly unique: practical, human-centred support for leaders.

My focus will centre broadly on:

1. Leadership Strategy: Supporting principals and educational leaders to make informed, confident strategic decisions in a world where change is the only constant.

2. Leadership Wellbeing: Offering tools and insights into self-care, time management, reflection, delegation, and building sustainable habits to ensure you can lead effectively without losing yourself in the process.

Having faced some of life’s most complex challenges, I bring a trusted perspective that inspires and supports. I understand the pressures of leadership, and I know what it means to navigate uncertainty while staying grounded. My goal is to empower leaders to thrive—not just professionally, but personally.

If you’re ready to explore how we can work together, whether it’s through one-on-one coaching, team workshops, or strategic consulting, I’d love to hear from you. Let’s redefine what it means to lead with resilience, purpose, and wellbeing at the forefront.

So here’s to the future: advocacy, elevation, and a commitment to making every step forward meaningful.

Thank you again,

{insert cool sign-off tag here}

Todd

Latest Updates

Understanding Teenage Suicide Statistics: A Parent’s Call to Address Cyberbullying

By admin on Tuesday, May 30, 2023

As parents, we bear the responsibility of protecting and nurturing our children. Today, we confront the alarming issue of teenage suicide, where statistics from 2021 reveal a heartbreaking truth: 112 deaths by suicide occurred among children and adolescents aged 17 and below in Australia, with a majority of these tragedies affecting young lives aged 15 to 17. It is imperative that we delve into these distressing statistics, recognise the urgent need for action, and unite in combating the scourge of cyberbullying.

Teenage Suicide Rates: While specific data for the 13 to 19 age range may be elusive, the prevalence of teenage suicide demands our attention. Our children, in the midst of their formative years, face emotional challenges exacerbated by various factors. One significant contributor is the ever-increasing threat of cyberbullying, which has been linked to heightened suicide risk among teenagers.

The Impact of Cyberbullying: As parents, we must address the grave impact of cyberbullying on our children’s mental well-being. In an interconnected digital world, our kids are susceptible to harassment, humiliation, and isolation through online platforms – and it is all too easy for them to become the perpetrator. Cyberbullying can invade the safe spaces our children seek, leading to feelings of despair and hopelessness.

Parental Involvement and Support: Our role as parents is paramount in combating cyberbullying and its devastating consequences. We must actively engage in our children’s online lives, fostering open communication, and teaching responsible digital citizenship. By monitoring their online activities, encouraging empathy, and nurturing resilience, we can help them navigate the digital landscape with confidence and address cyberbullying incidents effectively.

Creating Safe Environments: Together, as parents, we must advocate for safe environments both online and offline. By collaborating with schools, educators, and community organisations, we can promote awareness, develop comprehensive anti-cyberbullying policies, and support initiatives that educate our children about digital ethics, empathy, and online safety.

A Plea: Let us rise to the challenge and protect our children from the insidious effects of cyberbullying. Engage in meaningful conversations, educate ourselves and our children about the consequences of online harassment, and advocate for policies that prioritise their emotional well-being. By fostering a culture of kindness, empathy, and respect, we can help dismantle the toxic nature of cyberbullying and create a safer world for our children.

As parents, we are entrusted with the immense responsibility of safeguarding our children’s emotional well-being. The disturbing statistics of teenage suicide, exacerbated by cyberbullying, demand our immediate attention. By actively addressing this issue, providing guidance, and fostering a supportive environment, we can shield our children from the harmful impacts of cyberbullying and empower them to navigate the digital landscape with resilience and confidence. Together, let us stand as unwavering advocates, committed to protecting our children from the dark shadows of cyberbullying and ensuring their emotional and mental well-being in an interconnected world.

Latest Updates

We’ve got to talk…

By admin on Monday, May 30, 2022

Sitting patiently, waiting. No real desire to engage in conversation – despite the familiar, friendly faces spattered around the hall. A youthful energy on an occasion usually more suited to a much older crowd.

A portrait on the wall. An impressive portrait, a surfer, radiant smile, Hollywood looks. An empty lecturn. It could be the launch of a book or an award ceremony. It should be. It should be just the beginning. Instead it is the end.

Music starts, we stand. Our collective hearts open with the doors, and as the coffin is carried in, it leaves in its wake an almost tangible fog. The dark, penetrating pain of grief.

In the last 20 years , so much has been done to raise awareness to the importance of mental health. To reduce the stigma of mental ill health and teach children and adults alike how to access the support available to them. Yet a 5-minute google search will show the grim reality that suicide rates, though bouncing slightly from year to year, remain much the same. A flat line. People are taking their lives at a disturbing rate.

In 2020 roughly 15 women and 46 men suicided in Australia. Each week. 9 of us every day. (3 times more than Covid-19)

So why are we not seeing change?

We all now know how important it is to check-in with one another and be there for each other. It’s ok not to be ok, right? Surely, we should be seeing more people getting support in time, and these rates falling.

But, despite this changing of attitudes and gradual breaking down of stigma. Our own personal thoughts, mental battles and challenges remain just that – for the most of us – personal, and deeply private.

Creating a space to talk is an important start – but it’s not how we learn.

Leading by example is a tremendously empowering strategy for all leaders – it is also the most accessible strategy for all of us in this space. For children, growing into teenagers and onto adulthood, we owe it to them to share our stories in the exact same way that we want and need them to.

So what might this actually look like?

Now if we look at our remarkably complex skeletons – 206 bones working together to allow us to move, to work, to play sport -if we suspect injury, through pain or discomfort, we are quick to get it checked out and just as quick to ‘instagram’ the cool X-ray picture to let our friends know that we’ve cracked a tibia. Not to mention alerting our workplace to the extra support that we’ll need put into place. As a result of our behaviour our children are actually pretty chuffed to have their arm in plaster. 206 bones.

Our brains are made up of 86 billion neurons with a support staff of 85 billion glial cells looking after them. That’s 171 billion things to go wrong or break and impact our mental health.

When was the last time you shared with your children if you were struggling? Do you explain those anti-depressant tablets on the bedside table, in the same manner, as you did for the course of antibiotics you took for your infected fingernail?

If you are filling scripts at the pharmacy, are there (or would there be) some medications you feel shame collecting? Maybe you ask for a bag? These are the thoughts we need to challenge. This stigma that is wrapped in our core is the stigma that we must break if we are to have any chance to save others.

My PD Story...

50 Shades of Black (and the NDIS)

By admin on Monday, March 15, 2021

My story seems one of opposing forces, not many shades of grey – either black or bright Napisan white. At a glance – depending on the light and speed of the head turn, I am either gripping tightly to the soaring feathers of the giant eagle, the wind kissing my face and gently ruffling my golden locks, or, I am groping and flailing my way out of the giant eagle’s droppings that have knocked me on my ass and buried me neck deep in filth.

A glance that catches me in the light, sees a triumphant character, rarely struggling with feats of academia or athleticism, climbing the career ladder and winning the gorgeous wife and kids lottery. I like this glance. It’s a superpower, able to drag me out of the deepest pit.

But a glance that catches me in shadow, draws a timeline of calamity, some poor luck and the occasional kick in the bollocks. A dreary aura of trauma seemingly tethered itself to me at an early age, not able to block the light of wonderful and amazing experiences but holding on nevertheless with an ever determined grip to my usually untied shoelaces.

I bounced into this realm of the living a month and a half early through emergency caesarean. It was a procedure performed to save my mother’s life after a severe case of preeclampsia that would later be used as a case study in the training of future medical staff. My own life was more of an afterthought, it was presumed I would be dead or pretty darn sick to say the least. Even as a foetus, I was up for a challenge and perhaps with some innate resilience I pulled through – tiny, scrawny and ginger, but otherwise loveable! My eventual list of diagnoses kicked off with Talipes Equinovarus (club feet) and a hip malformation. I avoided the months in callipers others at that time endured, thanks to a forward thinking orthopaedic surgeon who opted to prescribe exercises and some fancy boots that would slowly turn my feet the right way. I was walking around by the time I was 18 months old and though a little pigeon toed, my old trophy shrine suggests that I must’ve been able to scamper ‘round the hockey and cricket pitch just fine!

I’m an ordinary swimmer though. For as long as I can remember, the ocean makes me a little uneasy. I’m assured this wasn’t always the case – it seems to stem from an early incident when I was all of four years old and having a great time with my brothers in the shallows of the local foreshore. A great time that was until, another local lad thought I’d make a comfortable seat. He plunged my head under the water and lounged on my back with no regard for my apparent need for air. Whilst my mother watched on helpless from the beach, my 6 year old brother recalls the slowing down of the world around him to this day, as he ran Baywatch style through the water, launching himself at and knocking my unwanted jockey into the ocean, freeing me to finally gasp in some oxygen. A clear memory for some, but my recollection is restrained to an anxiety – that keeps my head above water.

From water to fire!

My brothers are awesome – often shits – but still awesome and we all share the best of friendships. But we’re pretty lucky to have made it through, really. At one point, my scientifically minded elder brothers thought to discover the ignition point of my foam mattress, my memory of this is slightly different to theirs – apparently I was next to, and not in the bed.

The fire theme continued with a grander outdoor experiment testing the speed of flame transfer from a small contained dry grass pile to a grapevine that covered the entire rear fence of our property. Apparently the rate of spread exceeded the safety parameters that were prepared for and our back yard was engulfed before our eyes! Again it was always under control if you were to ask my brother!

A constant, in the background of all my childhood years of fun and calamity (I could tell some bmx or hockey stories and other ‘boys will be boys’ moments that left another Murfitt, usually me, in the emergency ward) was a condition that was undiagnosed until I was 16. A simple defect really, but an unknown cause of many dramatic scenes that would leave me feeling weak and pathetic.

I was a slow eater, always last to finish a meal. For the life of me and to my huge embarrassment I couldn’t swallow a ‘damn tablet’ (as I came to know them – as in “Todd! Would you just swallow the damn tablet!”). As it turns out an astute radiographer discovered that my oesophagus was being impeded by an errant artery, and a web of blood vessels was slowly but surely squeezing my gullet. Leaving the smallest of openings, where only the most well chewed food could travel past. A small tablet it turns out was actually an enormous choking hazard.

And so, my first major surgery wasn’t my ‘awake’ brain surgery but open-heart surgery twenty years prior, which came with more x-rays, MRI’s and iodine injections then Evil Knievel. One of the most vivid memories for me though was the moment a physiotherapist suggested post-op that she thought I ‘might get full use of my left arm back’. I had never known there was a risk of anything else… and yet I was playing cricket for my district within a month – against doctor’s advice of course. 😬

Before I could get too comfortable with my new high performing gullet and radical scars, my brother who had just completed high school himself, picked me up from school in my very own ‘71 mini clubman, that I was ever so close to being able to drive on my own. I enjoyed seeing it pull up even though I knew it would no doubt have suffered burn-outs and doughnuts at the hands of my brother along the way. But when I opened the passenger door something was off. In an effort to ease the tension my brother got straight to the point.

“How’s it going cancer boy!”

It didn’t take a genius to work out that the results of a biopsy taken the previous day of a growth on my back had come back, and my brother -sworn to secrecy of course- had been let in on the news.

His abrupt sharing of the results did save any awkward or soppy ‘sit-down-son-we have-something-to-tell-you’ moments and instead I chose my ‘last supper’, we ate, and slept restlessly, before meeting my GP for an excision and skin graft in the morning. The day-surgery was a bit of a disaster itself. At one point I had a pillow to bite on and a shot of adrenaline for pain relief, whilst a chunk of my chest was sewn into the middle of my back. Leaving me the proud owner of an ugly scar on my chest and a circular patch of chest hair on my back to remind me of the ordeal!

That would be the first of two Melanoma’s removed along with their many‘let’s not take a chance’ cousins – which made up the majority of my hospital visits over the next decade. Until the more recent Parkinson’s Diagnosis and ‘awake brain surgery.’

Now that is quite a glance at some medical and family dramas that I’ve processed over the years. My generally positive spirit has always been able to look forward to the next chapter of my life.

This post is not intended to be a ‘woe is me’ grab for attention, nor is it “Go Me! Look at how strong I am”, but hopefully an insight into either my crazy mind or a potential flaw with the safety net that, I am in the same breath so very thankful for, yet embarrassed to need – our National Disability Insurance Scheme.

Of all the incidents that could haunt me, surprisingly nothing seems to come close to my experience of applying for the NDIS. Asking for help, which is hard for everybody, and a particularly lacking trait of my own personality.

Like a knife to gunfight, a positive outlook as a defence mechanism is stripped away, along with the stoic, and courageous armour which is so much more comfortable than the sackcloth of vulnerability it is replaced with. An intense focus on all that is shit and will get worse. As if not enough, this is teamed with evidence from medical practitioners concurring with your assessment and adding more detail to the level of stink. Impact statements on others, whom are subjected to your presence, are sprinkled in like a dash of salt on an exposed wound, packaged up and sent off for judgement.

Is my turd of a situation big, bad and smelly enough? Did I hit the right keywords that will attract the rubber ‘yes’ stamp? Apparently not, I would discover some three months later after countless enquiries, with an invitation to re-apply.

I need help, but I do I really need it this much?

Should I take off my radiation suit, exposing myself to the core of a nuclear reactor, to simply apply a band-aid to a slowly but dangerously bleeding cut? There is no choice – not really. I knew that if it took one hundred applications, that is what I would do – because of the impact statements.

The support – although targeted towards me, is for others too, and the stinkiest part of Parkinson’s is that for a disease so isolating, it ironically hits those close to you equally hard. So the band-aid is for me, but it is also to stop my cut from dripping into the stinging eyes of my children, and my wife. So off with the suit…

…and back into the toxic world of negative medical reports, OT assessments, impact statements, begging for help from anyone who might know more about presenting the turd at the right angle, in the correct lighting and speaking the correct language to meet the unknown criteria of an unknown assessor.

The outcome of the second time round, was swift and support put in place within weeks. It is life changing. Previously low priorities in the world of family life, such as physiotherapy for myself, or some help in the garden give me the power to flip those impact statements. So yes, the NDIS is amazing, priceless in fact.

Yet the exposure to that radiation, though metaphorical, is particularly apt. It’s like a change to my DNA, morphing just a few positive cells of the many thousands, into negative ones, weak and pathetic, and contagious.

Latest Updates

51 Weeks remain

By admin on Friday, January 8, 2021

It appears the sliding of wires through my fleshy grey matter has adjusted my ability to control my impulses. Depending on your perspective I am more fun, confident, decisive and brave; or rash, childish, impatient and reckless. Internally, I’m still just me – though in a continual tug of war between anxiety and determination; shame and vulnerability.

And so, making grandiose plans for 2021 is likely not the wisest choice for me at this point in time, but then…YOLO.

So with some external inspiration from a young middle-eastern chap on insta (@the_spare_minute_runner) I figured I’d start a fundraising effort with the Michael J Fox foundation where I’ve committed to completing high intensity fitness training every day this year.

Now, Parkinson’s disease in a nutshell is the brain’s inability to produce dopamine. We use dopamine for motor control and cognition, and it is one of the chemicals that drive motivation. Given all of this, my ‘New Years resolution’ may have been a little outside my realm of possibility – so I am looking for your support to be my dopamine, and motivate me to get through this.

I’ve had great support to get me through the first week of the year, already running, riding boxing and lifting weights, at a level I haven’t for years. I know my family, my ‘Parkinson’s pals’ and the crew at ‘Brain and Body Fitness Studio’ are in my corner. A quick message or shoutout like this…

…really makes a huge difference to get me going, so thanks!

If you’d like to donate to the cause as well or instead of having a crack at some high intensity training, please do visit my fundraising page – 100% of funds go to research towards Parkinson’s treatments and ultimately a cure.

If you could please smash the like and share buttons – as usual awareness is key if we are going to make a difference!

Latest Updates

Legend in a lunchbox…

By admin on Tuesday, November 3, 2020

Thousands of screaming fans, overjoyed with my simple presence – it was not. But visiting my now former school to be farewelled by the students I cared for these last five years, was as close as I’ll get (or ever want to get!) to the rockstar experience.

Children have a great knack of saying what they think and feel without a filter – and I got the whole range. From the standard and classic six year old question of “I have a wobbly tooth!” (thanks Ralph W) to the eloquent, simple and ever so touching “I miss you. I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Much of my life now seems to be searching the clouds for silver linings, and I’ve had to search pretty damn hard for the sparkling one surrounding stepping down from my job. A position that I really did find so much joy in. But the old Parkinson’s silver lining is there – barely visible to the naked eye – but here nevertheless. Being cut down whilst still climbing the potential heights of my capability has given me the time to truly appreciate the impact I’ve been privileged to have on so many – and hopefully the values underlying my impact will help to guide my path into the future.

Looking out onto a sea of captivated, smiling little faces (and some bigger, older ones too); after being sung to, and presented with cards, drawings, photos and videos. I heard myself say something to this effect:

Any class, in any school can make a book for someone.

Most students these days can produce an iMovie.

The skills and even knowledge about me that has been presented doesn’t impress me. In this regard, I expect nothing less from you.

However, there is a genuineness – a sparkle in your eyes, an effort to participate, some solemn faces sure – but an overwhelming respectful ambience that fills me with the answer to a question that plagues me knowing that I will never be a school principal again.

“Could I have done more?”

The answer you have given me today is a comforting one… and the answer? Well ..the answer is that I didn’t need to.

If the impact I have had as a school principal has nudged students, families and staff toward a path of love – for learning, for what we have and for each other, What more could I hope to achieve. The thought that went into each piece of writing, each messy red-headed crayon drawing and every comment and memory on film was far greater than any gold watch as recognition that, for the most part at least, I was a positive influence, and the image I projected was indeed the calm, thoughtful and compassionate image that I intended. I use the term ‘image’ very deliberately because it is simply honest. The truth is, I was and still am, rarely as calm and confident as I project – a capacity that all of us have and underpins not only successful leadership, but a functioning society. Before this gets too deep and preachy, I will finish with an analogy that my under 11 cricket coach taught me, and it has never left:- If you can’t be a good cricketer – at least look like one.

Thank you all for making me feel like Don Bradman.

Latest Updates

Becoming Bionic

By admin on Wednesday, June 17, 2020

A magical, slightly gross process is whirring away deep within the microscopic cosmos of my brain. Over the past past twelve months, tiny strands of protein have thankfully been wrapping themselves around the alien, metallic intruders that expertly navigated their way on a mission to blast electricity into the sub thalamic nucleus just millimetres from the brain stem.

It’s a remarkable world in there. So very complex.

Sleepy neurons have been dependent on being hand fed their levodopa meals – through copious amounts of pills – to produce an unusually limited supply of dopamine that was quickly consumed transmitting messages throughout the rest of the body. These same neurons have been put on a harsh diet. A new rationing regime has been introduced – less than one quarter of what they have been accustomed to receiving. The rest of their oversized portion has been replaced with essentially two enormous cow-prods – jumpstarting them into more efficient production.

I imagine a world of chaos on this microscopic scale. An intimidating invasion preceeded by the most cataclysmic thunderous sounds and violent earthquakes as the drill-bits gave way to blinding light streaming into the dark landscape. One that was only previously lit by the gentle and peaceful crackle of electrical current as cells and neurons communicated in this once tranquil space. In this setting it is not hard to imagine why some of these worlds might rise up and fight, rejecting this new arrival with infection, pain and discomfort.

After 12 months, graciously, my little world has now completed its choice to extend a peaceful olive branch to the invaders. They are now part of the team, completely accepted and providing a valued contribution to a truly bionic world.

We probably have a lot to learn from these tiny dynamics!

Of course, all of this sounds a touch romantic (and I’m sure nutty!) but such radical treatment – not cure – for Parkinson’s disease was only ever a glimmer of hope for the future. Never able to promise anything. It required a leap of faith from an unknown cliff and into a thick mist. It was always going to hurt. But hope is a powerful motivator, a glimmer is more than enough. It allows us to wish, to dream the impossible dream, and sometimes it even drags us over the line to achieve it.

This hope, these dreams are shared – by my family, and in my truly blessed circumstance, with friends and connections beyond anything I deserve.

In many ways my dreams are now real. Our prayers answered in the affirmative. Some ridiculously out of this world technology gives me a new body and with it a new future. It has to be a new future. My new body is a different body, my new bionic, battery powered brain is different, and they bring new quirks to learn, new behaviours to become accustomed to.

For me this means the closure of the longest chapter of my life, Principalship. A chapter that has been so life-giving and life changing, so insightful and so very memorable.

My core values won’t change, although they have been refined and put to the test, strengthened in the furnace. I have been privileged to dedicate my working life to service of others. A life that gives back more than it can take – and it can take a helluva lot! This sense of service may shift focus, and I await anxiously but positively for the grace that will direct this shift. It is a proactive wait and I am so very looking forward to strengthening connections with so many of you, re-connecting with others and of course starting new ones. Again, I am so blessed to begin this new chapter close to home. How incredibly valuable is time? and time I have – to spend with my beautiful girls, and my family.

Latest Updates

One year on…

By admin on Sunday, May 17, 2020

Wow. One year on from life-changing DBS surgery and life has certainly changed. I am currently all charged up with my electrodes pumping a constant supply of dopamine producing current to my Basal Ganglia:- Which controls movement but also cognition, motivation, learning and other functions.

As such the life of this ‘up and coming, progressive principal’ has been flipped on its head. This crucial part of my brain that I have been able to rely on to support others in need now flares up with jerky and embarrassing movements, compromising my ability to support those around me and as such compromising my identity as a school principal.

Social anxieties, depression and the like, that I have always had the luxury of being one step removed from – always able to coach others, though in reality not fully understanding – are bizarrely now part of everyday life. It truly is the strangest of sensations knowing the right thing to think, but having my brain decide otherwise.

I have a great family, I have great friends. God truly only knows what I’d do without you.

I guess some learning for us all in these crazy times is to remember and appreciate the importance of human contact. That innocuous message; that simple thought, that turns into a random phone call, can be so much more powerful than we could possibly ever know. So, call that friend, text ya mum, or share the joke with your colleague; it might have no impact, or it might have more impact than can be measured.

Peace.

Todd.

My PD Story...

A light in the darkness

By admin on Sunday, January 19, 2020

I’m going to blame my psychiatrist for this one… he praised the courage of my public disclosure of my diagnosis, but challenged me with “Why stop there?”. Now after the simultaneous beauty and chaos of Christmas and New Year, some personal reflection time…

I’ve been in hiding.

I’ve been working hard, sure, writing books and editing footage (not to mention preparing for another school year) – and holidaying hard – jetting off for a New York adventure with my wife, but the truth is; for the last few months I’ve been mirroring the insidious nature of this debilitating, cowardly disease as it prefers to be unseen.

It stalks in the long shadows of the night, like the pathetically staggering, drooling zombie from any one of countless Hollywood flops; and when the sun is shining, it blends in, camouflaging, patiently awaiting the solitude of dusk, when I will succumb to this painful, contorting monster that lurks beneath.

Most of my waking energy is spent shielding others from my torment within. Is your hand shaking? Quick, put it in your pocket. Are you focussing too hard on the throbbing pain in your leg, that you missed half the conversation? Quick, nod and smile – say something witty. Now, double check if anyone is looking suspiciously… are they onto you? Walk normally, run, ride, swing a golf club, anything to reassure anyone watching, judging. In being so determined to be a positive, hope filled story, amongst the seemingly endless barrage of despair and negativity, I’ve strayed from the path and sacrificed a pillar of my self-worth – honesty.

And have I actually fooled anyone? Those in self-preservation mode, denying the impact on my life – our lives, lap it up like a broadway audience after free champagne at intermission. “Bravo, good show, old chap.”In turn I seem to bathe in the applause, gladly coming back for encore after encore. They mean well…as do I… and this is ok. If I can shield you from the gluttonous pain that claws out from beyond those of us fighting this disease, of course I will. But it is fool‘s gold.

So don’t look too closely, as you might notice that my 8 year old daughter tied my shoelaces this morning – because she was emotionally intelligent enough to notice my frustration (#prouddad). Or, that my beard is terribly unkept, because either; I cannot trust my hand at the moment and I’m too scared to trim it, or the apathy that grinds away at us ‘parkies’ drops my care-factor off the bottom end of the scale.

And certainly don’t ask questions that you (and I) don’t want to hear the answer to… “You look great!”works far more comfortably than “How are your symptoms?”Or an honest “How are you, really?”

However, those who know me best can see right through any foolish facade I invent. I know this. In fact, Ive never been, nor thought I could ever be so content to be told “Hey Toddy, you look like shit!”The immense weight and pressure that I put on my own shoulders (inflated by a (prescribed) drug fuelled sense of purpose and need to role-model, now further catalysed by my bionic $60k brain enhancer!) lifts. I can inhale and exhale, unwinding just a smidge. It’s refreshing and almost therapeutic to drop the pleasantries and BS Dr Seuss style commentary of “the places I’ll go”. “Chin up, it’s not so bad”- I get it, but if I’m already standing, dressed (albeit with the help of my children), and making myself available to talk to you – then you can take to the bank that I actually don’t need a pep talk. Though, I will accept a hug, a comforting hand on the shoulder, or even a playful punch in the arm – this is where the gold can be found.

It’s ok to tell me it’s shit. It is. And until there is a cure it will get worse. So if you notice me dancing on that stage for you, do me a favour – reach up, offer me your hand and help me down. Cheering me on only makes things harder.

Writing this is difficult, I really have to cage the insatiable part of me that wants to come off as a superhero. Triumphantly vanquishing this challenge as well as, or better than anyone else could, whilst desperately wanting to please those who support me day in, day out. And so I’ll end with this:

If the level of gratitude I hold – for the generosity and support, to access brain surgery (that has changed my life and helped immensely) – was some sort of treatment, I could easily cure myself and probably rid every other person under the gaze of this horrid ever-lurking creature of the shadows. Obviously this is beyond the realm of reality, but this gratitude can and does keep alight my desire to raise awareness, and to slowly but surely shuffle down this treacherous path, one crampy, crappy step at a time.

My PD Story...

Add Dementia to the list…

By admin on Saturday, July 27, 2019

* Please don’t use this blog to prepare for neuropsychological testing…the specifics relating to the tests have been changed to avoid any prompting or possible influencing of results on my account…😁

The black line drawing of a piano danced off the page, tormenting me with memory after memory of every previous interaction we had shared. From the plastic toy I couldn’t play as a toddler, to Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ blasting from Beechy’s top of the range speakers. And yet, mysteriously, it refused to remind me of its name.

“It’s like an organ.” I stammered out, eager to turn the page and continue the test, but Rochelle was having none of that.

“It has another name Todd, a more common name.”

“I know it does…it’s so obvious…but it’s not coming right now, I don’t know why.”

No doubt picking up on my growing frustration, the neuropsychologist kindly allowed me to turn the page where I was greeted by a simple drawing, but an obvious one. “An Elephant.” In my mind I was wiping the sweat off my brow, the first one must have been just nerves…a little test anxiety (the irony of a principal with test anxiety doesn’t escape me.)

I looked up for affirmation from Rochelle and was very relieved to see the gentle nod and hint of a smile. I turned the page with a small sigh of relief.

Another simple black line drawing was presented in front of me. This one was ridiculously easy…so easy…the level of difficulty of this question was … beginner.

“Todd?”

“It’s a nut.” My mind was scrambling for the answer – and knowing it was easy wasn’t helping. Gum nut? No. Chest nut? No. Peanut? No – that’s not even a nut Todd, its a legume, remember….aagh!

“I know you’ll want to know what sort… it’s from an oak tree, squirrels love them and stockpile them for the winter…” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this point, this was about testing my cognitive function, and all I could do was develop a warped, version of twenty questions that the neuropsychologist had no intention of engaging in.

I slumped in my chair… statistically I knew it was no more likely for me than for the general population, but now there was only one word swelling in my mind, greedily absorbing all my positivity. How could I possibly expect to run a school with Dementia.

I glanced at the clock.

It was nearly 3pm. My appointment had started two hours earlier, and we were only just starting the test. An eerie, unfamiliar shadow of despair was beckoning me and although grim, there was a comfort within it’s bleak, black presence that was drawing me ever closer.

Rochelle’s voice of wisdom seemed distant at first, but pulled me back into the room. “When did you take your medication last?”

“I am due for my dose at 3pm.”

“And how long does it usually take to start working?”

“Actually, it’s quite quick…within 15 minutes or so.” I finally caught up with her train of thought and leapt aboard! I shook my pills out from their container – two 200mg levodopa tablets and a 200mg entacapone tablet (my most regular cocktail) – grabbed my wife’s pink water bottle, that I had borrowed for the day, and gulped them down.

Rochelle offered to refill the bottle, which gave me a few minutes to breathe and await the miraculous effects of modern medication.

Whether it was the medication, or the kind and gentle prompting from my neuropsychologist, or a combination of the two, my test anxiety – if that is even what it was – seemed to melt away. My clarity of thought improving by the minute and before long I hit my strides and was cruising through the test – I even went back and got ‘the nut’!

The black line drawings, gave way to progressively harder challenges. Testing reading and vocabulary, problem solving, and short term memory. By 4pm Rochelle had tallied up the results and was able to give me the feedback that I had desperately needed to hear. My cognitive function was excellent (despite what my brother’s say) with a particular spike in my ability to think outside the square, which I believe is a good thing…😬.

There was no reason to think that my cognitive function should be an obstacle for the surgery. Another box ticked, but I was utterly drained and regretted driving myself to the test immediately. I needed a hug or at least to be nursed out to the car. Sadly, although I had spent the last three hours exposing my thoughts, challenges and abilities to Rochelle…I knew I couldn’t ask that of her. She did have a request of me though…

And so as I dragged my feet, a little disoriented from the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts playing havoc inside my head, I was quietly thankful, knowing that there would now be one more familiar, friendly face in the operating theatre with me.

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