My Dad has a Parkinsons Disease
My dad has Parkinson disease. There is a do-not-resuscitate directive on the refrigerator. My mother is his caretaker.
For now, Dad sits in his chair, leaning so far to the right that it looks as though he might just tumble out. His body can no longer hold him upright. The chair’s electronic components lift him to a standing position. He used to love electronic gadgets, though this is one he would not have wished for.
My dad has diminished cognition, vision, and hearing; his high-volume earphones play books on tape. Does he really follow the story? Or does he listen for our sake? If nothing else, it lets us believe he takes pleasure in the stories we play for him.
My dad has a Parkinson disease My mother is his caretaker, and she is often tired. The four rooms of their fastidious home are scattered now with the things that keep him going. Pill bottles and organizers line the new, almond Formica countertops: Stalevo for parkinsonism, Zoloft for depression, Seroquel for drug-induced psychosis, Miralax for constipation. Alarms remind my mother to measure his blood pressure and give the pills. At night, he wears foam-rubber booties to protect his heels from rubbing against the sheets and causing blisters. And there’s the stainless-steel walker; a hospital bed; and two wheelchairs, adorned with matching back and seat cushions, one for indoors and one for outdoors.

