Fresno writer recalls her father’s last days while he struggled with Parkinson’s | Opinion

“Where have you been, Naomi?” my father asked, awaking from a nap on my sofa.

I stood near him, balancing my 6-month-old son on my hip. I had carried him into the living room to see Grandpa, but Grandpa did not know he was Grandpa today.

My father suffered with Parkinson’s. At age 75 his hands rolled as if preparing to throw dice onto his backgammon board. His walk was a shuffle, his mind often confused.

He spent his days sitting in his favorite chair, looking at the television — programs he neither heard nor understood. A stack of old National Geographic magazines sat beside him on a TV tray, a reminder of his once love for reading.

Earlier in the day I had driven Dad to my home. We ate soup in the kitchen, and he nodded appropriately as I spoke of my new role as mother to his namesake, my son Paul.

After lunch, Dad’s eyes drooped behind wire-rimmed glasses. So, I led him to the living room sofa, arranged some pillows, helped him recline, and covered him with an Afghan. Then I put my son down for his nap.

Thirty minutes later, as I cleaned the kitchen, I heard him calling.

“Hello! Hello! Is anybody here?”

I found him sitting up, clearly confused. He thought I was Naomi, his neighbor on the farm in Kerman, where we had lived some 20 years ago.

I looked into his eyes. “I’m Pauline, Dad, your daughter.”

He shook his head. “Why do you say that, Naomi?”

“Let’s get you home,” I said.

I threw my purse over my shoulder and tucked the car keys into my pocket. Balancing my son on my hip with one arm, I helped Dad stand by grasping both of his hands in my free hand, and walked backwards in front of him, ushering the three of us out the door, down the steps, following the sidewalk from house to driveway to car. I helped Dad into the front seat then strapped my son into his car seat and attached Dad’s seatbelt.

Fighting tears, I backed out of the driveway and headed toward Arthur Avenue.

“I’m Pauline,” I repeated, holding my Dad’s hand, as I drove to his house.

“Why do you say this, Naomi?”

“Look at me, Dad. It’s me, Pauline, your daughter.”

His hazel eyes searched my face, his head shaking side to side.

I focused on the road, tears streaming down my cheeks.

When we arrived at his house, I led him up the steps and through the open doorway, again holding one of his hands and walking backward while balancing my son on my hip.

Inside, Dad’s eyes wandered from living room to dining room to kitchen. In his present state, home meant the farm, not this city house. “Let’s visit,” I suggested.

I handed my son to my sister, and led Dad toward his favorite chair, where he sat, studying the blue Turkish rug.

I turned to my sister. “If you give him a snack, he might remember where he is.”

When she returned with a tray of soup and crackers, I left for home.

That evening she called to tell me Dad fell asleep at the dining room table. “I can’t wake him,” she said.

“Is he still sitting at the table?”

“Yes, with his head hanging down.”

“Call 911.”

I grabbed my keys, left son and husband, and again drove the familiar route to Arthur Avenue. An ambulance was parked in front of the house.

“He’s on new medication for Parkinson’s,” I informed the paramedics.

My father sat at the dining room table with head bowed as in prayer. The paramedics lifted him off the chair and placed him on his back on the rug. Yet, he remained seated, knees bent, feet held stiffly in the air — a human chair toppled over.

The ambulance took him to St. Agnes hospital’s emergency unit, where doctors determined his confusion and locked joints were due to his new medication.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked when he was himself again. He was looking at me, but speaking to God.

I kissed his forehead the way I always had and rubbed the top of his balding head. “It’s not time,” I answered. “Not yet.”

I was 26, a wife, mother of a toddler son, pregnant with a daughter. While first words and first steps came as daily gifts, my father was gradually leaving me with last words and last steps.

For your information:

April is Parkinson’s Awareness Month. To learn more about the disease or to get help, contact the Parkinson’s Foundation, https://www.parkinson.org.