Most of Me (6 page)

Bergen offers one of his own, “We'll get through this together.”

I'd like to believe this—that a family that clichés together stays together—but I'm not convinced. I'm sure Naomi isn't either. We're in the same sinking boat now: daughters coping with parents who have Parkinson's. Under these circumstances, how can anything be
OK
? How can we get through this together, when I'm falling apart? Will she ever forgive me for getting sick? What if she's next? How could I ever forgive myself? My mind natters on and on. My worries are endless, and they all lead to dead ends. Naomi snuggles in closer while I stroke her head. I want to say something to reassure her, to reassure myself. But she beats me to it. “Maybe they'll find a cure.”

We let these words sink in. And while there's plenty more to say, those other words will have to wait. We are busy contemplating and commiserating.

After dinner, we sit around the table, drinking tea and eating cookies. I feel emotionally drained but also relieved now that Naomi knows. She seems more relaxed, having had a few hours to absorb the shock and to realize that I'm not on my deathbed.

“How did you get Parkinson's?”

“I don't know. And I probably never will.”

“Is it genetic?” she asks nervously.

“The doctor says it's unlikely.”

“But Zaidie has it. And now you have it. That doesn't sound like a coincidence to me.”

“I know. It's unbelievable.”

“It's a brain disease, right?”

“Yeah. It's a neurodegenerative disease. It's also called a movement disorder, since it causes tremors, shaking, slow movement, things like that. People with Parkinson's don't have enough dopamine-producing brain cells. And without enough dopamine, our bodies can't move normally. My dopamine brain cells are dying.”

“All of them?”

“No, not all of them. But lots of them. That's why I look like a zombie.”

“No, you don't.” Naomi smiles.

“Well, I feel like a zombie. I walk really slowly, and I have this creepy blank expression on my face.”

“I know there's no cure. But isn't there medicine you can take, to make you feel better?”

“There is Parkinson's medication that helps improve body movements. And I'll need to take it someday. But for now, I'm taking antidepressants.”

“Papa told me. Are they helping?”

“I think so. I'm not as depressed as I was before. Do you notice any difference?”

“Not really. You still seem pretty depressed. You still cry a lot.”

Her words cue my Cry Lady, and I burst into tears. “I'm sorry,” I sob. “I'm sorry for everything. For getting this disease. For not finding out sooner. But most of all, I'm sorry for how I've treated you and the suffering I've caused. I know I can never change the past, and I take full responsibility for the damage it's done to our relationship. But I want you to know that depression is one of the symptoms of Parkinson's. And the day someone is diagnosed isn't the first day of their disease. I've probably had Parkinson's for the past five years—that's how long I've been dealing with this awful depression and moodiness and anger. I've been sick. And I'm sorry. I love you so much. I never wanted to hurt you or push you away.”

Naomi sits slumped in her chair, burying her head in her hands. She is crying quietly, processing everything I have said. I offer her a tissue and she wipes her face.

“Would you like a hug?” I ask.

She nods, and I go stand behind her, lean over the chair, and wrap my arms around her. She reaches up with her hands and weaves them into my embrace. Our embrace. Our new beginning—I hope.

NOW THAT LISA
, Bergen, and Naomi know, it's time to tell my father.

When I was a little girl, everyone always told me, “You look just like your dad.” Beaming with pride, my dad always responded, “I guess we'll just have to dress her well.” Which my mother did. But much to my chagrin, nice clothes didn't quell the comparisons. Neither did puberty, pierced ears, or makeup.

While growing up, I just didn't see the strong resemblance. Sure, we both had big brown eyes, dark brown hair, and thick eyebrows. But so did lots of other people—including Groucho Marx, one of my father's favorite comedians. In fact, there was a time my dad grew this bushy mustache and actually looked a bit like Groucho when he tilted his head at a certain angle. The implications of this were horrifying: if people thought I looked liked my dad, and if I thought he looked like Groucho Marx, then I was in double trouble. It was in times of crisis, like this, when I needed reassuring proof that our father-daughter resemblance was exaggerated. Fortunately, all I had to do was peer out through my mass of Medusa curls and stare at his shiny balding head. Me, his spitting image? Not a chance.

There's no official date that marks the change in my perception. I didn't wake up one day and suddenly see my dad in the mirror. It happened gradually, incrementally, ironically. Errant eyebrow hairs began growing haywire—like his. Long curling toes started turning knobby—like his. Familiar gestures and facial expressions would catch me by surprise. And then came the clincher. It was last year. My parents were in Vancouver for a visit, and my dad and I were having lunch together. I can't remember what I ate, but I'll never forget what I saw: our left hands perfectly synchronized, lying rigidly on the table, in identical frozen positions. It was as if they were communicating with each other, like telepathic twin aliens.

Since my dad had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson's, the immobility of his left hand was understandable. But how to explain mine? It should have been obvious, but it never even crossed my mind. I simply chalked it up to subconscious mimicry and left it at that. But months later, it was clear that something was seriously wrong: my left arm wasn't swinging; my left leg was dragging; I was dropping things and tripping; plus, I was depressed. Still, I didn't make the connection. It was way too preposterous to believe—even when Dr. Smyth broke the news. Of course, my denial was short-lived: Parkinson's is like an uninvited guest who moves in with you, constantly demands attention, and is impossible to ignore. So this is yet another way I resemble my dad. I hope he doesn't mind. After all, imitation is the greatest form of flattery. And there's no one I'd rather resemble than my kind-hearted, compassionate, generous dad. But I'll soon find out how he really feels about sharing this disease—I'm telling him tonight.

I'D RATHER
do this in person, not over the phone, but living three thousand miles away makes things complicated. I could fly to Toronto. But that would require cash and courage—two things I'm short of these days. So the phone it is.

“Are you sitting down?”

It's the cliché question that bad news is about to be conveyed. But considering my dad's health and state of mind, he shouldn't be standing up for this news.

“I'm sitting down now. Just give me a minute. Is everybody
OK
?”

I can feel his anxiety level rising.

“Dad, I have Parkinson's disease. I was just diagnosed the other day.”

He takes a few deep breaths and then says, “And I thought you were going to tell me something terrible. Parkinson's isn't so bad. We can help each other.”

His pragmatism surprises me, makes me smile. Maybe Parkinson's isn't as bad as I thought it was.

After a short silence, he says, “Do you want to tell Mom? I can get her to pick up the phone.”

“Can you break the news?” I ask, feeling weary and vulnerable.

“Sure, I'll tell her.”

Now that I've told my dad—who is telling my mom—next on my list is my sister. Fern is three years younger than me. She's married to Bob, and they live in the burbs with their two young kids, Kayla and Josh. We get along much better now, living three thousand miles apart, than we did as girls sharing a bedroom. Back then, we did our best to bring out the worst in each other: taunting, teasing, insulting, ignoring. We were so good at fighting, we could start a war with just a dirty look. But usually we had legitimate reasons to tattletale on each other: “She was hogging the popcorn!” “She wouldn't let me watch my
TV
show!” “It was my turn to use the washroom!” “She was spying on me when I was making out with my boyfriend!”

Finding common ground wasn't easy. We were so different: I was the tall early bloomer, full of curves and cleavage; Fern was the petite late bloomer, all skinny and flat. I was painfully shy and kept my mouth shut; Fern was extroverted and mouthed off to anyone, even the school principal. I could hold a grudge longer; she could forgive faster. I was an A student, motivated by a neurotic fear of failure; she was an average student who didn't know the emotional price I paid for trying to be perfect.

I've since apologized to Fern for being such a mean big sister. And now that we're both moms, our sisterhood has slowly blossomed. No wonder, when I break the news about having Parkinson's, it hits her hard. Twice. Not only is she devastated to hear I have this disease, but she's also shocked to find out that I'm even sick—have been sick for years. She had no idea. But how could she, when I haven't revealed my vulnerability to her or complained about my mysterious symptoms and depression? Instead, I have listened patiently to hours of her personal problems over the telephone. She says had she known what I was going through, she would never have burdened me with her complaints. She would have tried to help me. She's sorry. So am I. Living on the other side of Canada has made it easy to fool my family and myself, to hide my failing health, to pretend everything is
OK
. Even if it means sacrificing closeness to my sister.

My brother, Jonathan, is next. As with my sister, I've kept him in the dark. He is six years younger than me—an age gap that was wide enough to separate our egos and protect us from intense sibling rivalry. We still fought, but never as much as I fought with Fern or she fought with him.

I used to worry about my brother. When he was growing up, he was impulsive, unpredictable, and hard to tame—qualities that often landed him in trouble. But he was also charming, funny, and warm-hearted, and it was these qualities that eventually took center stage. The wild child was still there, waiting in the wings. All he needed was an invitation to lure him out.

One such invitation presented itself years ago, when Jonathan and I went out on a Saturday night. We ended up at a karaoke bar, and after a few drinks we struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to us, who happened to be a musicologist. And who happened to have written his master's thesis on one of Jonathan's all-time favorite Motown musicians: Marvin Gaye. Jonathan was ecstatic. He was also drunk. And soon he was clutching the microphone, channeling the late, great Prince of Motown, belting out “I Heard It through the Grapevine” for everyone to hear. Only, he wasn't singing in tune or dancing in time, and the musicologist was not amused.

“Make him stop! He's killing the song!” the musicologist shouted.

But there was no stopping Jonathan.

“‘I know that a man ain't supposed to cry, but these tears I can't hold inside.'”

“I'll pay him to shut up!” he shouted, pulling twenties from his wallet.

“Encore, you say?” Jonathan roared at the audience.

The musicologist didn't stick around for “Mercy Mercy Me.”

Today, when I tell Jonathan my news, he is caught off guard. At first he thinks I'm joking. I assure him I'm not that funny—but someone up there sure is. Talk about a good cosmic joke: me being diagnosed with Parkinson's just months after my dad's diagnosis. Then he says, “You're going to beat this; don't you worry! You're going to get better, you'll see!”

Jonathan subscribes to the cheerleader style of moral support.

“But it's a degenerative disease. You don't get better; you get worse,” I whine into the phone.

This causes him to drop his pom-poms—but only momentarily. He quickly scoops them back up and jumps into another cheer: “The doctor will give you medicine, and everything will be
OK
.”

I know he's trying to be helpful; it's just that he's scared. He's recently married and a new dad—at a stage in life that should be full of blessings and joy. But our dad is sick, so is our mom, and now I am too. And these boo-boos can't be kissed better.

At the end of the day, the phone rings, and before I even pick it up I know who it is: my mom. “Daddy told me the news,” she says, and then, without missing a beat, she launches her inquisition: “Do you have a good doctor?” “What's his name?” “Are you sure it's Parkinson's?” “Did you get a second opinion?” “Do you want to fly in to see Daddy's doctor?” “When is your appointment with the specialist?” “Do you want Daddy's doctor to call the specialist?” “How special is your specialist?” On and on she goes until I can't take anymore. I know that bombarding me with these questions is her way of coping, of feeling like she's in control. I know she loves me and she means well and would do anything to help. But what I need from her right now is compassion, not the third degree. Hell, I'd settle for a pittance of pity—a “poor you” or “there, there” would do just fine. But that's not what she gives me. So before she can ask me anything else, before I lose my cool and say something I might regret, I say goodnight and abruptly hang up. And then I burst into tears. Where is
my
compassion?

Being my mother's daughter has never been easy. When I was young, I was too sensitive for the job. I never rolled with the punches. I couldn't sweep things under the carpet. I tended to brood. Had I been hardwired like her, things might have been different between the two of us. We might have been closer; I might have had more fun. She certainly never allowed misery to get in the way of her having a good time. She could switch from angry mode to party mode in the blink of an eye. Watching this transformation always amazed me.