No Assumptions

I lost count of how many doctors we took Mom to see that year. So many that she was beginning to lose heart. Her newest doctor, a neurologist, gave us a diagnosis at last—Parkinsonism. He started Mom on medication and ordered physical therapy with her home-health nurse.

Three months had passed when one day Mom said, “I need new glasses. Again! I don’t know what’s going on with my eyes.”

“Well, when I Googled Parkinsonism, I found that vision changes are a common symptom,” I said casually. It’s hard to describe the look that came across Mom’s face. Shock maybe? Sadness? Relief? I wasn’t sure. She started to cry. Her tears came slowly at first, then in a great deluge.

“I thought the doctor made up that diagnosis,” she said between sobs. “I thought everyone gave up on me and just made up some disease to keep me quiet.”

Her words took my breath away. I felt horrible. All this time and I’d mistakenly assumed Mom understood everything. She had always been so sharp and not at all shy about speaking up.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”

I pulled out my phone and tapped a few keys. “Let’s clear this up. Parkinsonism is a form of Parkinson’s. It affects people differently,” I began.