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Dear Grandad,
I will never forget
the day I asked why your hands were shaking. It's funny, I don’t remember much
else about that day. I know we were all wrapped up in warm winter coats and
scarves, excited to go and see Father Christmas at the shopping centre. I don't
remember seeing him though. I don't remember anything but that moment. I know
exactly where we were standing when I slotted my hand inside yours to cross the
busy road. I can remember the thought which passed through my head. 'Grandad,
why are your hands shaking? You really should have worn your gloves today.'
Looking back on this moment now, I can remember the brief pause before
answering. I thought nothing of it at the time, for I thought you simply hadn't
heard me through concentrating on getting us across that road. I know
differently now. You had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. A disease so
evil, I cannot believe the strong, kind, loving man who was my grandfather and
my mother's hero was suffering from it. Moments etched on my brain all have a link. I don't tell you this to upset you, memories are memories and nothing can change that.
Do you remember the day at the Westwood? We got stuck on, what is in my head as a giant mountain. I'm sure it wasn't, but I can remember how slippery it was. We had ventured too far and couldn't get across the sandy, steep slide. Panic was rising, I didn't know if you would be able to help. Your hand shot out and took my in the strongest grasp to pull me to safety. At that moment, although the tremor was there, it was unnoticeable as I marvelled at your bravery. You were untouchable as far as I cared. Nothing would harm you.
It carried on in the same way for years. It could have been my naivety, or the way I was sheltered, but the shaking in your hands was just part of you. I could hold your hand without thinking. You would roll up those stiff shirt sleeves and uncover emerald green tattoos on tanned leathery skin. I knew you held a world of secrets, shrouded in mystery, they were yours to keep.
You were such a clever man. So quietly spoken, but always saying the right thing at the right time and always seeing pain in other people when nobody else did. The only time I really noticed your pain in those days was the times you would try and hide it. Holding your hand with your other tightly in your lap, trying to still the shaking and massage the arthritic pains away at the same time. Gradually, your fingers seemed to fuse together, looking tight and painful. You adapted, but it was difficult to hold a tea cup and they started to arrive with a napkin in the saucer to soak up any spills.
Slowly, you started to fade with the disease. You hated the clothes your body forced you to wear. A tiny scratch on your arm would rip through your papery skin shedding bright red blood over your fading green tattoos. Your stiff shirt sleeves were too uncomfortable for your scarred arms and were replaced with softer tops which you always pulled to cover the bandages. Your smart trousers were replaced with elasticated jogging bottoms, easier for your carers to help your with.
Christmas dinner would be eaten with a spoon, but that didn’t matter, it meant you could eat more of my sprouts. They would roll against the spoon’s side, in danger of dropping straight back onto my plate, but would always disappear – you were helping even then!
Your cups of tea no longer came with a saucer, they were luke warm with a straw sticking out. Sometimes you were even offered a child’s cup to try and stop the spills. I can only laugh when I think of the time you point blank refused to drink anymore and just sucked on maltesers, much to the carer’s annoyance!
Slowly, you tried to shrink into the background. You literally got smaller and smaller, looking tiny against your chair. I know you didn't want to hurt those around you, or cause them inconvenience. You had worked your entire life and always provided and now this disease was taking away everything you had worked for. Eventually, you stopped speaking. We knew you were thinking, knew you wanted to come out with a clever, quick comment, but yet again, the disease cruelly let you think of the comment, but just wouldn't send it through your vocal cords quickly enough. I would have waited a million years to hear one of your witty remarks and, sometimes, they would still slip out, letting you shine through once more.
I never wanted you to give in to the disease and I knew you would never stop fighting. You were stubborn. You hated everything it had done to you and how it affected those around you, but you would not give up whilst there was still some fight inside.
We saw you that day on the bus and I know you didn’t see us. You had been on one of the carer’s days out. You would have never chosen to go on it, you had just been put on the bus and sent on your way. Bingo with a packet of crisps as the prize. That day, I could see the pain in your face. I knew then, you needed your rest. The World just didn’t deserve you anymore.
I know you didn’t give up, the disease didn’t win. You had simply earned your rest and the right to be pain free.
It's funny, that night - the last night - we left the hospital and through gasps of grief, my mum explained she couldn't understand why the nurses hadn't removed the sticking plasters from your face. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. All I could remember was grabbing your hand to say my final goodbye. I squeezed it tightly in my palm. I stroked the back of the tanned skin. Tears rolled down my face. Your hand was still inside mine.
Until we meet again,
Amy.
