Most of Me (27 page)

So far, pep talks and affirmations have flopped. Apparently, motivational phrases such as, “You can do it, oh powerful one; swing your arm like a pendulum” aren't powerful enough to override the faulty wiring in my brain. Neither are guided meditations and visualizations—which I like to call naps. For a while I tried acupuncture and homeopathy. But the only upper-limb movement these treatments triggered was my good arm digging my wallet out of my purse and forking over way too much cash.

Both physiotherapy and massage seemed promising, since treatments relax my tight muscles and reduce rigidity. And if you saw me walking down the street after one of these therapeutic sessions, you might notice my left arm getting into the swing of things. But that's because I'm cheating. While my stiff arm is temporarily floppy like a rubber chicken, my right arm reaches across my chest and gives it the occasional push—giving the impression that it is swinging to and fro.

There was a time I believed Nordic walking poles would be my savior. I imagined they were equipped with a high-tech mechanism that positions and propels arms to swing in perfect repetitive formation—right arm forward, left arm back, left arm forward, right arm back. I'd seen people gliding by me at the park, their hands gripping these lightweight poles, their arms swinging sweetly, steadily, inspirationally. So the other day, I bought myself a pair. I tested the right pole first, and to my delight, it worked like a charm. My right arm swung upwards, bending at the elbow, then stretched out, planting the pole firmly on the ground. The left pole was next. Gripping the handle, I expected it to propel my left arm through the same movement sequence. But instead, the pointy stick clumsily flailed about, randomly whacking at objects, pets, and people, including me. Heartbroken, I realized that one of us was defective. So I returned my Nordic savior back to the store for a full refund.

It's quite discouraging—no matter what I try, nothing gets my left arm swinging. Not even my Parkinson's medication. But since I'm off to Toronto for a couple weeks, I'm hoping to try something on the wild side: a night out with my friend Belinda and her husband, at their swingers club. Because I hear anything can happen there—anything at all.

Naomi and I are going to Toronto together. I have been looking forward to the two of us spending some time together. Away from the routine distractions of home. A chance to reconnect, build mother-daughter memories, discover common ground.

Bergen drives us to the airport and says, “I'm missing you both already.” We give him good-bye hugs and kisses, then check our luggage and get our boarding passes.

There is a long lineup at Security. This gives me plenty of time to practice looking innocent while hot flashes rage through my body and sweat pours down my flushed face. When it's our turn, I watch our carry-on bags pass through the X-ray machine, while Naomi glides gracefully through the metal detector. The security guard gives me the nod, and as I walk toward him, he says, “Please remove your scarf.”

“Welcome to the one-boob universe,” I mumble under my breath, remembering that I'd packed Dolores. I pass the test and go to collect my carry-on bag.

“Is this yours?” a female guard asks, looking suspiciously at my knapsack.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Can you open it for me?”

“Sure,” I say, unzipping the bag.

The guard starts rummaging through my stuff, and when she finds a square box she grins. I say, “That's Dolores.”

“Who?” she asks, opening the lid.

“Dolores. My prosthesis. I have only one breast.” I point to my vacant lot.

“
OK
. You can go.”

I pack up my bag and walk over to where Naomi has been waiting.

“Well, that was fun,” I say.

She smirks and says, “The security guard tried to pick me up. He asked for my passport, boarding pass, and phone number.”

“Lucky you. The only number I get asked for is my health card number.”

We laugh and walk to the waiting area. We may be going in the same direction, geographically, but we are clearly living in different time zones.

WHENEVER I GO
to Toronto, my dad always picks me up at the airport. Sometimes my mom comes along. But not this time—tonight he has passed the torch to my brother-in-law, Bob.

We throw our luggage into the car and drive to my parents' house. When my mom greets us at the front door, her electric-pink hair, jangling jewelry, sparkly outfit, floral perfume, and high-pitched squeals send me into sensory overload. This always happens when I haven't seen her in a long time. But within a few minutes, I acclimatize to her stimulating presence.

I wonder if she is also adjusting to mine. It might be just as jarring for her to see my deconstructed body, with its vacant lot and menopausal perspiration. If it is, she doesn't let on. Instead, she does what she does best—puts on a brave, smiling face and launches into party-girl mode, squeezing out every ounce of fun she possibly can. And why not? Naomi and I are in town!

My sister and her kids are in the family room. I give Fern a hug, while Kayla and Josh's sweet voices ring out in unison: “Hi, Auntie Robyn.” I bend down for more hugs and kisses and marvel at how much they've grown. Kayla is now eight and Josh is five. Naomi walks into the room, and then it's her turn to be embraced.

“Where's Dad?” I ask my mom.

“He was resting in the bedroom. He should be on his way down.”

I step back into the hallway, and sure enough, there he is, slowly, cautiously, walking down the stairs.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Robyn. Stick around; I'll be there in a minute.”

A Parkinson's minute, I think. When he finally reaches the bottom, our hug transcends “hello” and conveys a depth of understanding and compassion that comes from being held captive by this cruel coincidence—a father and daughter, decades apart, united by dying neurons.

“How was your flight?” he asks.

“It was good. No turbulence,” I say.

My dad smiles and asks, “Where's Naomi?”

Right on cue, she pops up by his side.

“Hi, Zaidie,” she says, wrapping her arms around his stooped shoulders and giving him a kiss on his cheek.

Parkinson's is often called a designer disease. This sounds glamorous and chic—like a fashionable affliction you catch from wearing expensive clothes. But it's not. There is nothing glamorous or chic about my wardrobe. Or the sickness. It turns out “designer disease” refers to the uniqueness of every patient's affliction—from onset and variety of symptoms to the severity and rate of progression to the response and tolerance to medication.

So while my dad and I have some similar symptoms, we are at different stages in the disease and respond differently to drug therapy. So far, I have been lucky. My antidepressants work wonders, and I tolerate Dopamine Agonist. My father is not as lucky. It took a while for him to find the right antidepressant. And since he had an adverse reaction to Dopamine Agonist, his neurologist prescribed Sinemet—the gold-standard medication (something I will require in the future).

For a while, his meds kept him in good spirits and mobile enough to go to the office regularly, socialize with family and friends, play golf, travel with and without my mom, and enjoy life. But lately, his depression is creeping back, and his physical symptoms are getting worse. I'm saddened to see the extent of his decline tonight.

“Who's hungry?” my mom roars from the kitchen.

“I hope Mom made enough food for all of us,” my dad jokes.

We sit down at the table, and Naomi asks, “Where's Uncle Jonathan, Auntie Ariella, and Gabby?”

“They couldn't make it tonight. But we'll see them tomorrow,” my mom assures her while uncovering the serving platters and bowls. Then she kicks off dinner with rapid-fire questions: “Who wants some teriyaki salmon? Honey garlic ribs? Mashed potatoes? How about roasted vegetables? Corn on the cob? Rice? Kayla, I made you your favorite—spaghetti. There's also sweet and sour chicken balls. Josh, I boiled you some plain hot dogs. Have some salad, Naomi. Robyn—you love my teriyaki salmon. Gord? Can you get some ginger ales from the fridge? Kayla and Josh—there's no chocolate cake unless you eat your dinner.”

We eat and talk and nibble some more. As usual, my mom doesn't allow anyone in her kitchen—not even to help her clean up—so Naomi and I join Fern, Bob, and their kids in the family room. Together, we read books and draw pictures, while my mom tidies up and my dad dozes on the couch. Just like old times. It's comforting to see that some things haven't changed in the midst of so much that has.

In the morning, we go out for breakfast to my dad's favorite Jewish restaurant, Bagel World. The minute we walk in the door, my parents recognize half the people in the room. Everyone recognizes my mom and her hair. Some wave; others come over to say hello.

“You remember my daughter Robyn? And this is our favorite oldest granddaughter, Naomi,” my parents beam.

“The granddaughter from Vancouver?” they all ask.

“Oy, is she gorgeous!” some add.

The waitress seats us in a corner booth. Naomi and I look at the menu, but my parents don't bother—they already know what they want. We order our breakfasts—bagels, omelets, grilled cheese sandwiches, fruit salad, juice, and coffee.

“When did
you
start drinking coffee?” my mom asks Naomi.

“This year,” she says, her fingers wrapped around her cup.

As she takes a sip, I watch both my parents smile. They have just learned something new about their long-distance granddaughter, the one they long to know more about.

“Tell us about some of your friends,” my mom says.

“What did you ask? I can't hear you,” my dad blurts out.

“I asked about her friends,” my mom says.

He leans forward, hoping to hear the conversation.

“The crowd I hang out with is really diverse,” Naomi answers. “I have one friend who is transitioning.”

“Transitioning from what? High school to university?” my mom asks.

“High school to
what?
” My dad is struggling to catch every word.

“University,” she repeats.

“Transitioning from female to male,” Naomi corrects.

I casually glance at my mom's face, expecting to see a puzzled expression, but she is smiling and nodding her head. My dad is also smiling ever so slightly as he leans back in his seat.

“Some of my friends are bisexual, gay, and lesbian.”

I sit quietly beside her, resisting the impulse to laugh. My brave daughter is testing the water. On the plane, she told me she was considering coming out to my parents. She is tired of them always asking her if she has a boyfriend. Perhaps now is her chance.

My mom's face slides into neutral, as she mulls over Naomi's words. And then she says, “That's nice. I'm glad you are accepting of people that are different from you.”

Moments later, the waitress delivers our meals. And before we have a chance to start eating, an old friend of my parents walks over to our table.

“I just had to come say hello.”

My parents are happily chatting away with this heavyset bejeweled woman. My dad introduces us his usual way, “You remember my daughter Robyn? And this is our favorite oldest granddaughter, Naomi.”

“How old are you, Naomi?” the woman asks.

“Fifteen.” Naomi smiles politely.

“Oy, have I got a boy for you!” the woman announces.

Naomi and I glance at each other quickly, rolling our eyes.

“That's what they all say,” I smile.

Later on, my dad drives us to his massage clinic. He booked Naomi and me for treatments with Julie, his massage therapist. When he walks us to the lobby, he looks exhausted and stressed.

“Why don't you take my appointment, Dad? You could use a massage more than me.”

“No, thanks. I don't want a massage right now.”

“How about sitting down and resting for a while?” I ask, pointing to a chair.

“I just want to go home.”

“Are you
OK
to drive?” I ask.

My mom has been quiet all this time. “Do you want me to drive you home, Gord?” she asks.

“No. I can drive myself. But how are all of you going to get home?”

“Don't worry. We'll figure it out.”

And with that, Naomi heads into the room for her massage, and my mom and I walk my dad to the car. As he drives away, I look at my watch and tell myself, it's only a fifteen-minute drive. He'll be all right. But really, I'm not so sure. My sense is that his driving days are numbered. Twenty minutes later, I call him on his cell and breathe a sigh of relief that he made it home, safe and sound.

The next few days, Naomi and I make the rounds: visits at my brother's home, my sister's home, my aunt and uncle's, my cousin's. My mom takes Naomi shopping for back-to-school clothes. And in between the visits, I keep my dad company at the house—rubbing his feet, massaging his head, sitting quietly by his side—doing what I can to ease his anxiety. And mine.

I hate this fucking disease.

OUR TRIP TO TORONTO
has an intermission—a four-day getaway plan. Out of the city. Into the woods. With my Toronto Trio. It's another one of Ruthie's good ideas. She has rented a lovely cottage on a private lake in the Muskokas and invited Lisa, Bonnie, and me to visit. She also invited our kids. In total there will be four adults, two seven-year-olds, one teenager, and a dog.

Naomi and I drive up north with Bonnie and Oliver. It's raining lightly. As the scenery changes from concrete and glass to trees and farms, my worries about my dad start to recede. While Naomi and Olie chat away in the back, Bonnie asks me, “Did you read Naomi's latest Facebook status?”

“Nope, I'm not her friend.”

“Really? I am.”

“What did she write?”