Free Most of Me by Robyn Michele Levy Page B

door frame, and a metal walker next to a window. When I last saw Marg, six or seven years ago, she was managing quite well—walking unassisted, talking clearly, working on her projects. But I’d heard from mutual friends that her Parkinson’s had become quite severe since then. She’d had experimental surgery—deep brain stimulation—to help ease her debilitating symptoms, however the surgery hadn’t helped very much. So I had mentally prepared myself for this encounter. Or so I thought.
    My heart begins breaking the moment we say hello.
    â€œIt’s been a long time,” Marg slurs quietly from an oversized chair.
    â€œIt sure has,” I say, fighting back the panic rising in my throat as Marg fumbles with her personal remote control. When she finally gets a good grip, she clumsily aims the remote at her chest, presses a button several times, then mumbles that she just sent a message to her brain via an implanted electronic device. I can feel my Cry Lady cringing inside, aching to crank out her tears. But somehow I stay calm, and the four of us start talking. There are so many questions I want to ask Marg, but first I need to make something clear.
    â€œEven though one neurologist just diagnosed me with Parkinson’s,” I say, “I’m still not 100 percent convinced I have it. That’s why I’m going to see another neurologist in a couple weeks; he specializes in Parkinson’s. To get a second opinion, from an expert.”
    No one says anything for a few seconds, then Marg leans her rigid body forward in her chair, looks me straight in the eye, and slurs, “Oh, you got it, all right. You got it.”
    Her words sting like icicles plunging into my flesh. I desperately want to cling to my speck of doubt, but I can’t escape this feeling that I am staring at my future and Marg is staring at her past.
    â€œWhat makes you so sure?” I sputter.
    â€œIt’s the eyes, how starey they are. And the face, hardly any expression. And the body, stiff, slow, and tight.”
    I try moving my mouth into a smiling shape, to politely mask my shock, but my face feels frozen, locked in place. At least I can blink. Yes, that I can still do.
    But I can’t stay here very long—for my sake or for Marg’s. So I rattle off my questions, and within an hour, my mind is swimming in advice, opinions, facts: “Parkinson’s affects everyone in the family.” “Find a good neurologist who makes time to see you.” “Support groups are depressing.” “Your pharmacist is your best friend.” “Qualifying for social assistance is difficult.” “Massage therapy is a waste of money.” “Parkinson’s causes constipation.” “Clinical depression comes and goes; get help when it’s severe.”
    Before we leave, Noel gives us a tour of their spectacular kitchen. A giant granite island sits smack dab in the middle of encircling custom cabinets, workstations, and appliances. French doors open onto the backyard garden. And next to the doors is a cozy sitting area, with couches and chairs and a compact computer nook. Perfect for entertaining. In fact, they are hosting a breakfast party in a couple weeks and would love us to drop in. It’s a fundraiser called Porridge for Parkinson’s. They do it every year. And they’ve inspired other people across Canada and the United States to hold such an event. So far, they’ve helped raise over $500,000, money that goes directly to funding research into a cure for Parkinson’s. We thank them for sharing their insights and experience with us and promise we’ll drop by for a bowl of porridge.
    Bergen and I are both silent during the drive home—thinking and trying not to think about all that was said. Especially Marg’s pronouncement: “Oh, you got it, all right. You got it.” Maybe not the warmest welcome into the