Our New Normal
I crouched on hands and knees and peered under the car. My knees rested flush against the icy concrete parking lot. It took only a few seconds for the bitter Vermont cold to infiltrate my jeans and limbs. Removing one glove, I reached under the car and searched for the car keys Sam dropped as he struggled to open the car door. I immediately spotted them. Luckily they had landed close to the edge of the car. With an outstretched hand I grabbed the keys, sprang up, opened the door, slid behind the wheel, and turned on the engine. My body demanded warmth.
The key incident occurred a year after Sam’s diagnosis and Parkinson’s entered our lives. Meeting him you may not realize anything is wrong. But during conversation the keen observer may notice a stiff gait, a slow unwinding process getting out of a chair or car, a whispered voice he insists is as loud as it ever was, a delayed response to questions and instructions.
Our Vermont sojourn was temporary, a visit to family over the winter holidays. The trip north had been uneventful. Unfortunately the drive home became an endless journey.
The morning dawned sunlit, bright with a cloudless sky, but below freezing; temperatures dipped below zero (Fahrenheit). The roads after days of freezing rain and snow appeared icy and hazardous.
As we headed south the temperature warmed slightly and crept into the teens. But poor road conditions persisted, slowing progress as a soggy brown mush, a combination of melting snow and ice mixed with road dirt and snow plough salt, belted the windshield.
Earlier in the week our windshield wiper hoses froze. Before getting on the highway we purchased a container of windshield cleaning fluid and, as we started our drive, embarked on a recurring scenario. A truck would pass and splash muck and mud on the windshield, almost causing an accident when the driver – Sam or me – lost sight of the road. We pulled off the highway and Sam poured the cleaning solution on the windshield. The pavement re-emerged before us, and we continued homeward. Soon another truck would whizz by and wintry filth splatter the windshield again. We pulled over to the side of the road. Again. This scenario repeated for hours.
Finally somewhere in Connecticut the hoses unfroze and washing fluid streamed onto the windshield.
Sam and I share the driving, but Sam tires easily and I find myself behind the wheel most of the time. This particular drive, typically a seven or eight-hour jaunt through mountain beauty and picturesque villages, took twelve tedious, mind-numbing hours along highways packed with SUVs and belching trucks.
Pre-Parkinson’s life consisted of habitual doctor visits, a common occurrence as folks progress to senior-hood. Parkinson’s added more doctors and appointments to our routine.
We live in a walkable neighborhood with stores and businesses within a mile of our home. A drugstore is two blocks away. Sam is supposed to walk at least 20 minutes a day. When weather turns cold or rainy or laziness sets in, a stroll to the drugstore fulfills this mandate. He wanders the aisles and purchases whatever we need at the time – toilet paper, toothpaste, Starbucks Frappuccino’s, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream on sale, careful not to buy more than can be carried home.
A physical therapy center, a short drive from our house, offers Parkinson’s exercise classes for a minimal fee and free physical therapy with a doctor’s prescription. The therapy is motivating and frustrating at the same time. Sam wants immediate results, he wants a miracle medicine, but there is no cure for Parkinson’s or a pill that alleviates all the symptoms.
In suitable weather we ride bikes or walk. Our community offers ideal terrain, a flat expanse for miles, for the physically not-quite-fit and seniors – we are both. However Sam worries about losing his balance, so these activities are not entirely stress-free. He will probably forego his bike in the near future.
Day by day we adjust to our new normal.
Meryl Baer worked for a financial firm, eventually leaving and moving to the New Jersey (USA) shore. Folks descend on her cottage by the sea in summer, except in the summer of 2020 when nobody came. No one visits all winter, so she writes. Baer writes about her travels and travails, family, food – a passion and pastime – and anything else she finds interesting. Check out her blog, Musings of a Shore Life, sometimes humorous and occasionally noteworthy – http://merylbaer.net, and/or her Medium posts.