Let me set the record straight right off the bat: Disease is an awful kind of word. It implies sickness and contagion and has a terrible connotation. When I say my dad is diseased, it’s because he has a disease (defined as a disorder of structure or function in a human, animal, or plant, esp. one that produces specific signs or symptoms or that affects a specific location and is not simply a direct result of physical injury). He’s not oozing green slime or have purple spots or anything. He has Parkinson’s Disease, and he has for somewhere around 14 years. Parkinson’s does something with your brain where it makes you shake and slur your speech and makes you off balance and have physical symptoms like that. Eventually it’s debilitating. Okay, now that that’s out of the way:He has a disease, and that has taught me a lot. Not Hallmark kind of sentimental lessons, like how I have to be strong and all of that stuff. These lessons are less sappy and more about how to just live my life. So here we go- here are the things that my dad’s disease has taught me.
The first lesson is that (nearly) everything can be funny. Some people agree with this, and others don’t, but in my personal experience, there can be jokes made about everything if you learn to laugh at yourself. My dad jokes about his disease all the time. If he didn’t, I think we would all go crazy, because it would be too sad to think about. But, instead, he jokes about his shaking. Like a lot. In public. And it’s especially funny when he jokes about it and other people aren’t expecting it and they get really uncomfortable. However, this does not mean you should feel free to mock other’s disabilities. Most of the time people joke to cope, and this is the case with a lot of people with debilitating illnesses. For someone who doesn’t deal with them to joke about them (especially if you don’t know if the person you’re joking about is okay with it) is, in my opinion, distasteful.
The second lesson is that sometimes life, for lack of a better word, sucks sometimes. You have to know that, accept that for what it is, and move on. You would never know my dad has a disease if he didn’t shake. He has never – not once – let his disease bring him down. He works, probably, more than any other person I know. He does martial arts and is a black belt. On top of all of this, he still has time to spend with his family. Yeah, sometimes he has to lie down because he gets really bad headaches, or gets tired, and sometimes he has to excuse himself to take his medicine, but other than that – nothing. Honestly, half the time, I forget he has a condition. He’s that good at making you forget.
The third lesson is that people, for lack of a better word, suck. You have to know that, accept that, and move on. I noticed people staring at my dad in public first when I was about 7 or 8 years old. People would look at him like he had six heads because he was a young guy using a cane to walk. He couldn’t keep his balance. But since he was young, when people would see him all hunched over using a cane, they would just stare. From that moment on, I made sure I never stared at another person who looked or acted different. It was hard for me to go through those times because I would be so genuinely sad. I knew my dad was a normal guy, so why were they all staring? I wasn’t sad for me; I was sad for him. Now, though, I know better. I know my dad is a strong enough guy and never to pity him, because not once have any of his actions constituted pity.
The fourth lesson is that people are oftentimes uninformed, and having an opportunity to inform them is incredible. “Why is your dad so shaky? Parkinson’s? What’s that? Why does he look like all hunched over and stuff?” All of these questions were shot at me almost constantly as a kid, and not being able to understand why people didn’t know already, I used to get so angry. I had no idea that people didn’t know what Parkinson’s was. Just because I had been around it, I figured everyone knew why someone would shake, or use a cane, or hunch over, or slur their speech. As a kid, I didn’t understand. Now I do, and I am so excited when people ask because it is an opportunity to educate. I use these questions to spread awareness and acceptance. I have learned patience and that is priceless to me.
The fifth and final lesson is that everyone dies. I know that now. I’ve had family members get sick and die. I know that in a matter of years, my dad won’t be able to walk, move, or talk. One day, he’ll wake up but he won’t be able to get out of bed. One day, he might not remember who I am. One day, he won’t be alive anymore. I feel like that is a lot more real to me than it is to a lot of other people my age, because I live with my dad dying every day. That’s okay. I treasure every moment we have. Everything we do means so much more to me knowing that one day, we won’t be able to do them anymore. And even though that’s sad, it’s life, and it’s something we all have to deal with. It’s not getting any better, and I know that. But I’ve also learned to be grateful for what I still have. Some people don’t have their parents anymore, and that’s something I could never imagine. So, I’ll take what I can get. And I’ll love every second of it.
So for a lot of reasons, I’m grateful for my dad being the way he is and doing what he does. Everything happens for a reason, and I’ve learned so much being in this situation. I’ve come out of this experience a better person, and I couldn’t be more proud of my father every day.