MEMORY #108

When I feel regret, I think about the deliberate moments we shared since my fathers Parkinson's diagnosis in 2003.

After my son's death.
After his divorce - when his much younger wife decided she didn't want to care for an old man.
After he shed his armor and opened his arms - wide.

For the first time in his life he needed me.  And I have always needed him.

Thankfully, I wrote about many of our experiences.  The big ones - like when we flew to South Bend, Indiana to watch the Fighting Irish.

And the simple ones - a trip to the doctor, a visit with a friend, a warm spring day on the front porch.

This is one of my favorites.  It took place in December of 2009.

We share the far left corner of the back row, tucked behind a succession of synchronized seventy-something seniors - a line of ladies with tightly teased hair, forgiving waist bands, and festive holiday attire. 

Each takes a turn - twisting to catch a glimpse, then signals the next in line with a quick elbow jab to the gut, “Look at him go, he’s really something.”

I am to his right, just within reach.  His cane rests twelve paces back - in the lap of a plastic cushioned arm chair, under a pile of down jackets, crocheted scarfs and warm winter mittens.

“Zumba!” shouts the instructor as she whips her hair counter clockwise, shimmies her shoulders and lunges left. 

Her passion is contagious and we do our best to keep up.

“Stretch your hands high, and move your hips, now shake, shake, shake to the right!”

He’s famous for having 2 left feet.  This coupled with his Parkinson's paralysis - a stooped posture, quick-step shuffle, and rocking horse tremors - fuse with the strong Latin beat.  He's a dancing machine!

Everything about this is new to us; the music, the movement, but mostly, the shared experience.

I don’t have many memories of us doing things together, unless you count being in a car.  As a kid, he took me skiing but I don’t remember actually skiing with him. He’d leave me at the top of a mountain and wait for me at the bottom. If I couldn’t find him I’d know to look in the bar.

“You did great Dad,” I assure him.

“I farted,” he admits.

“I thought you crapped your pants?"

“No, just farted,” he assures me.

“Good for you, way to hold back.”

This is NOT my favorite topic of conversation but discussing his bodily functions has become the norm.

I don’t expect him to master zumba, rumba, salsa or samba, but I am catching as many memories as I can.

Every hardship holds a lesson - a cryptic message.  My father’s Parkinson’s has slowed him down enough for us to get to know each other.

Dad's dancing partners

one of his admirers 

Dad - before he dropped his armor  

My daughter Lindsay at my side


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