I Lost My Dad to Parkinson’s Disease

His voice had a unique quality somewhere between a tease and a drill sergeant. His  bright sky-blue eyes were, as my mother says, “dreamy”: The profile of his  Italianeque nose, misshapen from an old figh school football injury, gave him character.

Once upon a time, my father would run circles around a man half his age.  He never walked or sauntered.  On the contrary, Dad was always in high gear, breaking in to a near-run when going from one place to another. Yet, during the last two of his 78 years, he became increasingly more debilitated by an unstoppable force more powerful and steadfast than any man or woman…Parkinson’s Disease!

It began innocently enough.  One day Dad telephoned me saying in a near whisper that he was afraid to drive the 150 miles to visit me.  On another occasion when visiting my parents, I observed Dad seemingly sitting and staring into space for quite some time.  His eyes seemed fixed; his face seemed frozen. 

In the early stages, after one physician dismissed my dad’s unsteadiness on his feet as “old age,” our family knew that something was very wrong.  Dad began to slobber uncontrollably and drag his right foot when walking.  He tried, in vain, to fortify himself with an alphabet soup of vitamins and tonics.

Desperate to find the truth, Dad, who was spending most of the time in his lift chair, asked my mother to get the telephone book from the desk drawer.  Slowly turning the pages, he searched until finding the listing- neurologists.  Pointing to one of the names, he instructed my mother to make an appointment for him. By this time, Dad’s speech was garbled and barely audible which meant that my mother had to do all the telphoning for him.  It took some time, but Mom succeeded in getting the appointment that would forever change our family. 

On the first visit, I remember Dr. A taking my mother aside. She then informed Mom that she would have a long road ahead of her.  At that time, none of us could fathom what the neurologist meant by these prescient words.

Although the doctor prescribed some form of dopamine to curtail the symptoms associated with PD- tremors, impaired gait, difficulty swallowing, aphasia, weakened speech, mood swings- Dad’s condition was too far advanced to have a salutary effect.  We were buying time.

Amazingly, Dad NEVER complained about his worsening condition. He NEVER stopped looking out for his family even while in the hospital bed positioned in the tiny bedroom of my childhood home. Remarkably, even when Dad ceased being able to stand, speak, or breahe properly, he maintained his keen sense of humor.  I swear that his now-faded blue eyes twinkled since he could no longer laugh! 

It was during this time of round-the-clock caregivers and frequent visits home, that I faced the inevitable loss that was just around the corner.  Dad knew, too, but he wouldn’t admit it to us.  Although  held captive by his now failing body, my father showed that he was truly my hero by blinking his eyes when either Mom or I did any small favor for him.  We turned his body to prevent nasty bed sores from erupting.  We fed him nutrients through the feeding tube impanted into his stomach.  We put on surgical gloves to change soiled bandages.

When it was time for Dad to leave the world he had known for more than 70 years, he faded away in his sleep. It was overl 

After Dad’s funeral, I could not get out of bed for three days.  A combination of grief, exhaustion and depletion had set in.  I wasn’t ready to return to work. Nor was I prepared to feel so empty inside.

Why couldn’t I remember my father before the illness?  Why couldn’t I envision him running down the basketball court when he officiated our high school basketball games?  Where were the images of this precious life that was once vibrant?  Why couldn’t I visualize him  clad in his khaki work clothes and crouched over a refrigerator that he was trying to repair?  Parkinson’s Disease robbed us of the man who had survived World War II and never spoke about it. This slow, insidious disease stalked him relentlessly until the final assault.

I have no regrets.  Helping to take care of Dad was an honor and a blessing for me.  I only wish that the last memories of him in such a debiliated and vulnerable state would not have crowded out all the  other more pleasant ones from days gone by.  It’s not fair to be defined by the very illness that destroys us!

If Dad were able to hear a personal message from me, his daughter and first-born,  it would go something like this…

“Thanks, Dad, for never giving up and for welcoming me to your bedside when you were so very ill.  Your amazing strength and courage during the last few months of your life inspired me to persevere regardless of the obstacles I encounter.  The loss that I continue to feel each and every day shows how much I loved you. Although Parkinson Disease was a nasty foe, you put up a great fight. You are my hero!”   

Spruce Up Your Home with Wall Sconces!

Looking for a  unique fashion flair for your home? Tired of  that blank wall?  Why not shop around for a pair of wall sconces that add pizzazz to your home decor?

Prior to the invention of electricity, homeowners used wall sconces with real candles to illuminate dark and dreary rooms.  In old-time movies, wall sconces or mini torcheres  were used to add a dramatic effect to rooms where mysterious events would unfold amidst the eerie glow of the candles.

Now wall sconces apear to be making a comeback.  More home decorators and interior designers are using wall  scounces to add an intimate, warm and ambient glow.  As far as the imagination can stretch,   designers are creating and marketing wall sconces with a host of materials including silver-plated brass, stainless steel, polished nickel, resin, hand-forged iron and glass, and hand-carved wood.

Whether the decor suggests ornamental iron  sculpted in frond-like patterns or curved, beveled mirrors encasing a single “candle,” hand-crafted sconces combine aesthetic beauty with functionality.  A matter of personal taste, the perfect set of wall sconces in the dining room could be fabricated in an elaborate brass pattern with shimmering drops of colored glass draped around each candle.  Or, some dining rooms could be well adorned by pillar candles made from cast iron with a bronze finish and a faux candle roughly two-thirds the size of the sconce.  Although the most expensive wall sconces can be quite costly- more than $3000- there are many lighting fixture companies that offer more affordable models below $400.

Regardless of your budget, you can set your own fashion trend by incorporating wall sconces into your home’s decor.  With a flick of the switch, you can light up a dark corner or create a warm glow around your dining room table.

Patience and Endurance Passeth All Understanding!

As a “Woman of a Certain Age,” I have experienced a host of different  skirt lengths, role models, sure-fire diets, TV stars, and historic events.  I have survived the debilitation and loss of my father from Parkinson’s Disease and the untimely death of a valued colleague at age 60.  

When I was a little girl, my mother reminded me with some frequency to be more patient and to persevere during times of challenge.  She used to say that I was a wonderful child with only one  major fault… lack of patience.  Looking back, I believe that she meant that I wanted life to be perfect and for my prayers to be answered immediately.  Similarly, I feel that she recognized the inward impatience that prevented me from growing emotionally and spiritually.  Although an excellent student, I rarely believed in myself or in my ability to make it through tough situations.  Accompanying this overriding sense of internal restlessness was a tendency to be impulsive at times.  It was almost as if I wanted to “short-circuit” the predictable and stable natural forces in life, choosing to ignore prominent warning signs posted along the way.

More than 30 years ago on a late August morning, my parents loaded up our Ford Fairlane with most of my worldly possessions heading for the college campus where I would spend the next four and a half years.   While unpacking my small green Samsonite piece of luggage, I found a plastic-coated bookimark in one of the pockets.  Upon closer examination, I read the poem that had been embroidered in deep silken lavendar thread, ” Patience and Endurance Passeth All Understanding!”  Admittedly, I was both puzzled and deeply touched by my mother’s gesture.  As the first of two children to attend college, my being three and a half hours away from the parental nest was bitter-sweet for my mother…and for me, too! 

All these years later, whenever I am confronted by a challenge or fear of huge proportions, I recall these comforting words which somehow have taken on a rat-a-tat-tatcadence like a beating drum.  Although I have unfortunately misplaced the bookmark sometime during one of my many moves, the profound message lives within me.  Yet, I must confess, there are times when my drive to accomplish or to be the best in whatever I endeavor overpowowers my sense of reason.  In an almost naive fashion, I expect the desired outcome or result to be immediate.   Impatience creeps in slowly at first. Then it accelerates in tempo and intensity before reaching a crescendo.  This is partly because of my tendency to measure myself against the yardstick of others instead of charting my own progress.

My 83-year-old mother lives closeby now.  I have watched her endure the tragic loss of her husband of 52 years.  I have watched her conquer breast cancer.  Though frail and visibly worn,  my 4′10″  mother is a living reminder of how patience and endurance can sustain us through the vicissitudes of life. Not one day passes without my marveling at her stamina and tenacity.  Her angelic-looking face masks the heartbreak of losing her sister a few months ago.  Her elfin smile distracts us from the discomfort brought about by severe arthritic pain.

I wish I could capture my mother’s rare ability to invoke patience and endurance at will.  Even though I am now an aging “Baby Boomer,” I continue to struggle with waiting and sustaining faith.  Will I ever fully ward off the one blemish on my personality that my mother pointed out so accurately when I was a youngster?  Maybe not entirely.   Yet, how could I ever cease trying to emulate the woman to whom patience and endurance come so naturally? 

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