Summer
As we pull up to the curb and park on a hot summer day in 2003, it catches my eye before anything else. Its tall, thick trunk holds a sprawling canopy reaching halfway across the front yard. Rare in Central Austin, this red cedar is why we bought the house. It’s had a front row view of significant events in our lives.
Like when I received a Parkinson’s diagnosis in the fall of 2016.
Fall
Exiting the St. David’s Hospital parking garage, I begin the one-mile drive home from Dr. T’s office. Tracey is outside, tending to one of her beloved flower beds when I pull up in front of our house. She sees me, stands up, and removes her yellow cloth gardening gloves. Dropping them on the ground, she walks to meet me near the sidewalk. Our dogs, Sunny and Fiona, follow her.
“What did he say?” she asks.
My red eyes moisten. My lips quiver.
“Allan, what did he say?”
“He thinks I have Parkinson’s disease.”
She covers her mouth with her cupped hands, one on top of the other. She shakes her head as her eyes fill, too.
“Oh, Honey…No. I can’t believe it…is he sure?”
“He said he’s pretty sure.”
We stand in a silent hug under the canopy of that strong red cedar, which now holds a rope our daughters swing from, the grass under it worn away to hard-packed dirt. I hear a bird chirping quickly and see a young woman passing by pushing a baby in a stroller, but she doesn’t look our way.
A gentle breeze blows against our wet faces. It hints at the coming cool of a late Central Texas fall.
Our embrace relaxes as Tracey raises her head from my chest and looks at me with her inviting brown eyes. They captured me over a quarter of a century earlier, in a chance meeting in Boston. She wipes her cheeks. Every bit of her 5’ 2’’ slim frame straightens. Her tenacity pops out.
She reaches out for my hands. “I’m actually relieved,” she says “Honestly, when I saw you pulling up, I was worried you had worse news to tell me.”
I nod, slowly, and think, “Isn’t Parkinson’s bad enough?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was worried it might be something horrible,” she says. I wasn’t going to let myself go to that dark place, but it stayed in the back of my mind…and what I mean is that Parkinson’s is something we can deal with. It will be okay.”
Silence.
“I know. We will get through it. What other choice do we have?”
The branches of that red cedar move, as if to nod along with me.
I force a smile.
She lets go of one hand and we begin walking slowly toward the front door. I tell her about the scan Dr. T is ordering, which will be a couple of weeks away. It’s a formality. My body doesn’t feel right and it hasn’t for a long time. The reasons are beginning to make sense.
We walk into our safe place, surrounded by photos of those we love most and sit down together on our green sofa. Tracey folds her body into mine and places her head on my chest.
We sit in silence.
It will be several hours before our girls get home from school.
Looking at pictures of them—on the wall, above the fireplace, atop a row of bookshelves— wondering where I go from here, my eyes turn to our front bay window and I begin to stare at the tree.
Winter
For nearly ten months, I live locked away in isolation, emotionally if not physically, closely guarding my Parkinson’s secret. It weighs on me; eats at me. I need support but fear asking for it.
Then, I have a dream, which I’ve written about previously. I see a tree. Its tall, thick trunk holds a broad canopy reaching dozens of feet in every direction. Similar to a red cedar in my front yard, this sturdy tree in my dream stands alone, independent, its green leafy cover having long pushed out any close presence of other trees.
Still dreaming, I’m in a field of bright yellow wildflowers covering the landscape as far as I can see. A gentle wind blows this floral blanket, which takes on different contours as its colorful blooms sway back and forth. They twist and turn through the countryside in solidarity, petal to petal, stem to stem, displaying resilience and radiating beauty, regardless of the wind’s strength or direction.
Shortly thereafter, I disclose my illness; first to my parents, then to my children, and then to my boss, friends, and colleagues. I begin trying to use my Parkinson’s for good, arm in arm with others seeking to do the same.
Spring
It’s three and a half years later when Tracey and I stop on the sidewalk in front of our house. We’ve just taken Sunny, Fiona, and our newest dog, Hank, for a walk. Still locked down by COVID-19, we talk about the next marathon we hope to run together, which is nearly eight months away. The purple rope hanging from the red cedar catches my eye. A gentle breeze moves it ever so slightly. Beneath it, lush green St. Augustine grass, where hard-packed dirt used to be, reaches toward the sky.
I remember the line from a Shelley poem, “If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”[1]
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[1] Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ode to the West Wind.” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45134/ode-to-the-west-wind. Public domain.
Photo: Allan Cole
Allan Cole is a professor in The Steve Hicks School of Social Work at The University of Texas at Austin and, by courtesy, professor of psychiatry in the Dell Medical School. Diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2016, at the age of 48, he serves on the Board of Directors at Power for Parkinson’s, a non-profit organization that provides free exercise, dance, and singing classes for people living with Parkinson’s disease in Central Texas, and globally via instructional videos. He also serves as a Community Advocate for ParkinsonsDisease.net, writing columns about living well with Parkinson’s. He is author or editor of 10 books on a range of topics related to bereavement, anxiety, and spirituality. Currently, he is writing a book on counseling people with Parkinson’s disease, which will be published by Oxford University Press. Follow him on Twitter @PDWise.