There, I said it. I’ve known for several months now – since the day he was diagnosed. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve known for a few years. My dad’s father and sister died relatively young from Parkinson’s-related symptoms, so I’ve been alert to the classic signs for years. As the family member nearest to Dad, I was enlisted by Dad to accompany him to a neurology evaluation for a second opinion at a prestigious Ivy League hospital (the one in Connecticut…it rhymes with shale).
My day began with me whining to my wife and kids about the date and timing of this appointment – middle of a busy workweek and my wife’s birthday. Then, as I was pulling up to the hospital garage 5 minutes before the appointment, Dad called to ask whether he should go north or south on I-95 in Bridgeport, which is a solid 20 miles away. He’d be late. I was pissed. (The doctors among you will say that getting lost and being late are symptoms of Parkinson’s, but my old man has been getting lost and running late for all of my 42 years.) I was short with him on the phone and then tapped an annoyed email out to my sibs. What am I doing here? I have work to do. Why did I come?
When he finally arrived, the receptionist told us that the doctor would still see us, and we were asked to complete paperwork. Dad asked me to read him the questions and fill in the answers. I was shocked by the number of symptoms he listed – blurred vision, joint swelling, trouble swallowing. I was floored when the doctor pointed to her armpit and he couldn’t name what it was. This was my father. Wow, he’s sick.
I held Dad’s coat and insurance papers, sat off to the side, and occasionally checked my Blackberry. The doctor – a young, pleasant woman at whom I directed an anxiety-driven jab in our first moments together (for which I later apologized) – artfully brought me into the assessment process. I occasionally clarified a family timeline discrepancy or added my observations about onset of certain symptoms. The process allowed for some memories to emerge that made us alternatively laugh and cry. In the end, the doctor confirmed the Parkinson’s diagnosis, but also offered a rather favorable prognosis. Dad’s symptoms were progressing at an unusually slow rate, so the meds would likely be very successful in stalling the progression further.
Dad and I had lunch in a crappy little diner, and we talked about coaching and business and family and kids and Parkinson’s. We connected in a way we haven’t in a very long time.
Dad will soon be leaving his Connecticut home to live near/with my mother in Florida. They have been apart for almost 12 years (I’m saving that story for another post…or a dime-store novel). I’ve known for at least several months of his Parkinson’s diagnosis, but haven’t done a thing about it…I’ve barely even spoken about it.
Why is it sometimes so hard to spring into action even when you are in complete control of making a beneficial change?
· I’m fat.
· My website sucks.
· I hate my career trajectory.
· My wife and I haven’t spoken meaningfully in months.
· My employees don’t know how much I appreciate them.
· My backhand really sucks.
· I hate my office space.
· I can’t remember the last time I hung out with each of my kids individually.
It wasn’t until today that I accepted the reality of Dad’s health and decided to actively involve myself in his treatment. I’ll now be doing it 1,200 miles from where he’ll be living, even though he’s practically been in my back yard for the past 8 years.
On the bright side, my visit with Dad jolted me to make a list of things I can start changing now.
