The two people with Parkinson’s disease meet each other at the reception. Relatively newly diagnosed, she recently has taken up the trumpet. Her face is mobile, her voice is strong and she lacks any obvious sign of the illness. She comments that we can’t see the tremor in her hand, under the table.
Her son and her spouse are both physicians and they approve of her musical idea. Blowing into the trumpet will strengthen her respiratory muscles, as well as those surrounding her lips. There is a spontaneous quality about her that the man across the table lacks. He may have been diagnosed earlier, but the illness is far more apparent in his demeanor. There is so little expression in his face, people talking to him repeat themselves. He calls them on it, telling them, “ You’ve said that three times.”
With a distant cousin, he easily recalls what life was like when he was younger, the youngest of three boys, and the favorite of his father. He is eighty, now. Frequently, he loses the thread of what he’s speaking about. The cousin, seven years older tries to assist him by recalling his previous words. This mental fog is new to him and frustrating.
When the two old men walk they both have heads that thrust forward. My father watches his feet, while the cousin, Bill, gazes ahead. A previous physician prescribed Namenda for my father’s mental function. He applied the patch and didn’t like the affects. He wonders sometimes whether his change in mental acuity can be ascribed to Parkinson’s disease, or whether it’s merely aging. His wife sees the fog he functions in very clearly. She no longer gives him the accounts. He has made too many mistakes and they can’t afford the errors. He has difficulty following a recipe in a cookbook.
Both the cousin and my father have married women much younger than themselves. When the eighty-seven year old cousin drives across the United States in his mobile home, my father has been directed to not drive, due to the carpal tunnel surgery he recently underwent on his wrist. Other family members have rejoiced over the fact that he can no longer drive. He takes the bus, when he is home.
My father falls easily into the ‘depressed’ category. He has a consistent grey cloud over his head, though he may not admit it. He prefers to see himself as having a dark sense of humor. As he has gotten older he has gotten smaller. His clothing tends to hang on him, rather than expanding over his girth. This is new, too. He can eat cheese and chunks of rye bread now, without concern that the doctor will report his cholesterol too high. At eighty, each day is a blessing for those who love him.