"THIS IS MY STORY" - C.W. FRICK

I never heard of Parkinson's until my dad's finger began to tremble.

He tried hiding it, but pretty soon eating without covering up his

shaking finger became a challenge. He took a different tactic,

and began eating with his non-dominant hand.

That slowed down his eating time, but not his

determination to keep it all under wraps. 

Mom was getting Alzheimer's and Dad was gradually--no, not

gradually--immediately, taking on her household duties as well

as keeping his job going. I never saw my dad wielding a mop and

bucket in the kitchen before, nor did he ever load or unload a dishwasher

or a dryer. 

But in the space of two months, there he was in all his glory,

rubber gloves and all, mop water sloshing across the kitchen floor,

big smile across his seventy-seven-year-old face. He invited me

over for Thanksgiving and to my great surprise, he cooked everything.

All I brought was the laughter.

Mom was drifting from us, oh she sat at the kitchen table, but she

wasn't participating. I had never seen Mom not clean up, or set the

table, or make the meal, but apparently Dad was moving along into

that next cycle of life that meant he was in charge of everything.

I was there to talk politics, religion, and how to keep the 

stovetop stuffing from getting soggy.

We covered everything from C.S. Lewis to the current political cycle

while Mom looked over at the television looking like she wished she

could be anywhere but here. I noticed Dad brought her a cup of tea

and some cookies and that seemed to perk her up. 

And that was when I noticed the trembling in Dad's hand.

Fast-forward to me burying my parents about seven and ten years later

respectively, and my husband of fifty years beginning to tremble. My

strong-man, go-to-guy who could build houses and bake bread, work

two jobs and help any neighbor who needed to be picked up when they fell

in their shower. 

He was the man all the widows called when something

broke, or they needed a man to show them how to set up their

printer, or take their dog to the groomer, or take their car that sat

unused in the garage for a spin to the grocery store.

One lady loved it when he'd bring her

a milkshake.

Yeah, that guy. He got Parkinson's too.

Neither Dad or my husband got mad or complained about the 

things they couldn't control. They just kept moving, albeit more

slowly, until, in Dad's case, he needed a scooter, and eventually

a caregiver.

I watched Dad work until his stroke. Dad loved to work, and so does

my husband. And that is why I've moved my husband somewhere 

where there is a lot of work to do around the house because,

"Something to do, someone to love, something to look forward to,

is the secret to happiness," so they say.

The history I had with my dad makes me equal to the task with

my husband. They were and are my heroes, and sometimes heroes

get Parkinson's.

Thanks,

Melanie