This part of Dad, of Parkinson’s, happened slowly at first and then escalated so quickly I almost don’t remember witnessing the signs. He’d drop his plate and I’d call him clumsy; he’d spill water down his front and he’d pat himself dry. Then his cutlery kept slipping through his fingers when he ate, until it was impossible for him to hold it steady at all. He began skipping meals just to avoid the truth altogether.
Dad eats well today, which makes me happy. I used to panic and hear imaginary thunder when he didn’t clear his plate or if he fell asleep long before it was time for bed, convinced it was an early sign of something else. The more I read on Parkinson’s, the more I discovered just how unwieldy and elusive it was; a sprawling tree of disease with each branch detailing a possible symptom or consequence. I’d lie awake wondering if he’d die in his sleep and how it would be my fault for not calling a doctor and saving him when I could. I’d creep down at maybe two or three in the morning and listen outside his bedroom door for sounds of his snoring, only returning to bed when I heard it.
I’m more aware now. Sometimes he’s just not up to it and what matters most is that he eats something before taking his medication, even if only a slice of toast. Each tridaily dose of tablets is separated into a packet and I pop out the one for Tuesday evening. I place one tablet after another into his mouth and hold the glass of water to his lips. He has to swallow twice and chase with more water. He always closes his eyes for a bit after.
I take his tray back to the kitchen and start washing up.
* * *
When it’s time for bed, I hook my arm into his, bend my knees and help Dad out of his chair. Slowly, we shuffle to his bedroom.
I brush his teeth using a cup as a sink, replace his top with a pajama shirt, change his catheter bag but keep his tracksuit bottoms on.
I put Dad to bed four times a week, so I have the routine down, but I must do something wrong this time because when I lift his legs into bed, a sting rips my back open, it’s like pulling a thread loose of its stitched pattern. I drop Dad’s feet onto the bed’s metal railing.
“Sorry, Dad.” I haven’t hurt him; his evening meds make him too drowsy, but my back is screaming and I need to bite my lip to keep them closed.
I pull his duvet up to his neck, kiss his forehead, then turn off the light.
When I leave his room, I remain bent forward, slowly pulling myself up to ease the tight ache until I’m standing upright.
Fuck.
Google: Back pain in your mid-twenties
ZF: Anyone else got really bad lower back pain? I’m only 24 and I wanna know if it’s anything serious.
MT: Lol back pain at 24? What the fuck happened to you?
KS: For your information MT, the number of young people experiencing back pain is rising so it’s not funny. ZF, try having a hot bath or placing an ice pack over the painful area?
TP: Have you tried yoga? I’m a yoga instructor and you can find a number of useful stretches on my website here …
CC: It’s all linked to the Government, but no one ever believes me. From a young age we’re told office jobs are the goal. Then you sit at a desk hunched over 9–5, 5 days a week for most of your younger years until it’s too late to do anything else but get a “helpful” chair.
LG: Why would the government want a nation suffering from back pain?
CC: So we don’t take over.
I call James that evening, but typically he doesn’t answer and instead calls back hours later. I have to turn the light on as he switches on the video camera. I can see he’s in his car.
“Hey, Mads!” He’s got plaits in his hair now and they’re long enough to lie down instead of stick up. When he smiles, his gold tooth glints. Growing up, James and I were always told that we had great smiles—smiles that show perfect teeth and soften our faces. It’s one of the few things we both inherited from Dad. “Dad asleep?” James asks.
“Yes, which is why I called,” I tell him. “I could use some help with that. My back hurts from lifting Dad from his seat and into bed. Can you do one of my nights each week maybe?”
James scratches what I know to be a phantom itch on the back of his head. “Ah, I can’t really come all the way from Putney just to put Dad to bed, Mads,” he says. “And you know my work schedule is unreliable. It’s not fair to promise you a day and then not come because I gotta be somewhere else last minute.”
James’s friend hit the rap-and-grime music scene hard and made it big （I’m talking MOBO and BRIT Awards）， so he’s part of that team—chauffeur at times, social media manager, tour companion. Mum jokes he’s a glorified hype man, only there to boost an ego. I think he’s hoping to one day join the music scene himself.
“Right.”
“Anything else I can help with, though?” he asks.
“The council tax bill has come in.”
He sighs and scratches the beard growing on his neck. “Sorry, Mads. I’mma bit short on extra money, but remind me next month, yeah?”
“Sure … but you’ve been saying that for a couple of months now.”
“I know, I know,” he replies, looking away. “Things are just a little tight at the moment. You know I just got back from Japan.”
Do you hear yourself? That’s what I want to ask, but instead I mouth: Must be nice. Then say, “Shouldn’t the flight have been paid for since it’s your job?”
“Yeah, it was, but I spent too much. I wish I was good with money like you.”
“I don’t really have much choice.” I keep my tone light, but I’m not happy. Not so much at the empty money promises, but because I’m reminded he can get away with it. If he says he has no money, short of stealing from his wallet, I have to accept that. He knows I’ll pay the council tax because I’m living here and can’t just sit back as bills pile up.
“I know that,” he says, “but I live on my own. My rent’s not cheap like yours. Mum has you payin’ only four fifty. Mine’s over a grand ’cos it’s Putney. Just use a bit of your savings and hit me up next month to replace it. You all right, though, yeah?” he asks. “You heard Mum’s comin’ back soon?”
“Yes, she told me last week,” I say. “She hasn’t booked her flight yet.”
“Let me know when she does. I’m not tryna be around too much when she’s here.”
Shouldn’t be too difficult. “Okay.”
He laughs but doesn’t mean it. “I forgot you’re on her side.”
“I don’t take either of your sides. I’m neutral. Like—”
“Yeah, Spain. I know, I know.”
I smile. “Switzerland.”
“Close enough, no?” he asks. “But yeah, you know I don’t like the way she moves or acts with Dad. Your husband is here sick so what are you doin’ in Ghana all the time? She leaves you to deal with everything.”
Something you two have in common.
“She’s running Grandad’s hostel,” I say. “You know Uncle doesn’t help much, so it’s only her, really.”
James presses his lips together and shakes his head.