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!”
