My Dad, Debitilated by Parkinson’s Disease

Yesterday, my father was admitted to the hospital for bronchitis. His Parkinson’s symptoms, plus the illness, rendered him barely able to breathe, so my mother called 911 in the middle of the night.

Once my father was in the emergency room, the doctors saw his bruised body, his torn flesh, from his daily falls, and they notified my mother that he should not return home.

Several years ago, when my grandmother was placed into a nursing home, my father was so uncomfortable being there to visit her that he told me that, if he ever had to go into a home, I should pull the plug.

He has dementia, but he’s still cognizant enough to know that he isn’t at his own home. He will be agitated about being cared for by others, rather than my mother. But he is physically, cognitively and verbally disabled, and a nursing home is the safest place for him.

I know this, but I am sad about what might have been, if not for Parkinson’s disease. My father is only 71, and he will never go home again.

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