Shaking

     The summer kicked off for us on the weekend of June 9th, with our annual weekend at Family Camp.  Every year, we made the four hour trek down to Mustang Island on the Texas Gulf Coast, to connect with friends who are like family at the beautiful Episcopal conference center right on the beach.  Our whole family looked forward to it all year.  

     As we were bustling around the house, packing our swimsuits and beach towels and books, I saw C open his bureau drawer with blatantly shaking hands.  They had been shaking off and on for years.  He even went to a neurologist once, at my encouragement, but came home with a description of the visit that was lacking in much explanation--"He said I definitely don't have Parkinson's.  He was really impressed with my walking.  I think I just lack upper body strength and that's why my hands shake.  I'll probably start lifting weights."

    Our youngest had taken to pointing out when he noticed his dad's hands shaking.  While we ate dinner, he would say with awe, "Look at how much Dad's hands are shaking!"  I would try to deflect his attention away from it, not wanting my husband to feel embarrassed.  Other times, I would see my husband staring down at his outstretched hands, studying them, and saying that the new nail hardener he was using seemed to stop the shaking.  It was, of course, nonsensical, and I would get frustrated at his lack of understanding that one thing obviously had nothing to do with the other.  

     This level of shaking, however, was next level.  It was violent and would be obvious to anyone with eyes to see.  I felt scared for him.  Protective of him.  I told him I would hold his tray when we went through the food lines, sure he wouldn't be able to do it on his own.  I texted my friends to let them know what I was seeing, and asked that they make sure their husbands didn't tease him.  His hands shook for the entire drive, and within an hour of arriving at Family Camp, my friend's husband discreetly leaned over to her and whispered in her ear, "Does C have Parkinson's?"  

     In a strange coincidence, the pastor leading that weekend's events spoke in a sermon about his own diagnosis with PD, when he was only in his 40s.  I wondered if this was some sort of divine intervention.  I pulled him aside later, letting him know what we were experiencing, asking more about his treatment and the path to diagnosis.  When we got home that weekend, I insisted that C book another visit with the neurologist.

     This time, he said the doctor told him he is certain it isn't PD, but he wasn't sure what it was.  C told me that he struggled with the memory test, but was able to answer all of the questions with some hints.  The neurologist scheduled his next visit in three months.  We didn't know then that by the time September came, C would be unable to make that appointment.  But we would have the answers we were seeking, even if they weren't the answers we wanted.