My experience with PD began with a call from my father. I had just gotten out of a court hearing in Georgetown, saw a notification on my phone, and called him back. He picked up immediately, and his tone was unemotional as he said, “I’ve been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.”
You really do think that a break in the orderly progression of life, or the lives of the people you love, is going to arrive in biblical force. Portents of doom, newscasters shuffling stacks of paper, people running through the streets. Then it happens on a day like any other. No fanfare, no warning. There is no “before and after.” There just is.
Dad is a prosecutor. He deals with horrible situations for a living, and I could tell that this had been internalized as another process of logical steps. He was analyzing the event, evaluating outcomes, and creating a rational course of action before allowing himself to have an emotional reaction. I asked him if there was anything I could do, anything he’d like to talk about, and he told me no. He was consulting with a neurologist, and he just wanted to let me know. I thanked him, popped over to the Monument Cafe, and sat at the counter to think until my coffee went cold.
These changes have been a struggle for him. I knew my father as an excellent archer and outdoorsman who enjoyed writing, assembling and painting miniatures, and hunting or fishing in the Oklahoma woodlands and prairies. Although his symptoms are reasonably controlled, we’ve shared a few laughs about the bitter irony of an archer and painter developing a disease that progressively inhibits manual dexterity. I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I probably have some idea of how your children and loved ones are feeling. My father’s bows are hanging on my wall right now.
A friend recommended CAPS to me shortly after my father’s diagnosis. PD is insidious; there is no enemy to defeat except hopelessness, no epic victory but a progression of days. Small and gradual improvements. CAPS has given me a sense of purpose and direction with my father’s diagnosis; our activities and fundraising feel like striking back instead of sitting still. As with my father’s disease, every day brings the potential for small improvements.
CAPS cannot cure Parkinson’s on our own. But we can be part of the greater effort against this disease: combating hopelessness, despair, and foregone conclusions. Making each and every day a little better with our support groups, social programs, and education. Being there for both people with PD and their families. Creating community.
Thank you for joining us with your hands, your words, and your resources. We’re stronger together. Every bit matters, and every day is another opportunity for our community to make a difference. Please help CAPS accomplish this on February 26th. I look forward to meeting you in person there!