Eighty-four with Parkinson's

I told him, honestly, he didn’t have to come, but he insisted; the notary couldn’t be solidified without a guardian. If I wanted to move to the same state, the paperwork—with all their acronyms and fine print and extra fees—needed filling.

I only had one more day before my flight; I needed the notary to get the license to get the residency; would it be cruel to ask him along? Eighty-four, with Parkinson’s?

My grandpa used to drive motorcycles, fought in Korea, and built an engine from scratch. He was a farm boy from a small rural town up north. No one had a grip like my grandpa: years of hefting axes and milking cows gave him hands hard as bone. But then one day, I noticed he wouldn’t stop shaking and wondered if he was cold. “No,” my mom whispered. “Grandpa’s just a little sick.”

Our family never explained what Parkinson’s was, so I got the clinical, objective view from websites that didn’t describe my grandpa at all: a loss of neurons, lowered dopamine, impaired movement. Well, sure, grandpa tripped sometimes. And he forgot things, but who didn’t at his age? And then the shaking got worse. He rattled like the engines he loved to work on, shaking like he had a personal earthquake in his veins. It was hard for him to dress, to pick up a fallen object, to walk. He had canes and even a walker, but as was his way, he loving stiff-armed my worry to reluctant acceptance.

He insisted we would go together. And so we did.

Grandpa liked to direct whoever was driving—not only where to go, but how to. He’d tell you to slow down or take this exit, talking over the GPS. Our old city was laid out like a grid and his mind used to be a steel-trap in navigating it.

When we arrived at the business to notarize the papers, he asked for my arm in place of his cane. Scoliosis curved him so he was a good head shorter than me as he hooked his iron grip into the crook of my elbow and shuffled along. The man who notarized our papers was so impressed and honored by grandpa’s sacrifice that he did the paperwork for free. Grandpa and I shared a smile: disabled parking, and free notary? We joked of the good fortune misfortune could be.

Another hour on the road. Dinner would be a little later. My conscious nibbled its nails because dinner was always the same time, always, because grandpa needed his pills with food, and those pills were the only things calming his rattling. But the DMV was in another county and it was the only one open. If I didn’t get there before they closed—forty-five minutes, and all this traffic on the highway—then I’d leave for my flight tomorrow having missed another chance at residency.

Grandpa sat calmly and advised me slow down. But your pills, I thought, and my license…

Be patient, his eyes answered.

We finally arrived, and I almost burst into a sprint, but grandpa knew he’d need his walker this time, so I yanked it from the trunk and helped him grab it. The parking lot jammed with the after-work crowd. Would it be a long line? Would they fit me in before they closed? Should I buy another plane ticket?

I angled my whole body for the door—college here, new friends, a new job, how I missed this city and the smell of the morning dew, the cry of gulls and the feeling of gritty sand stuck in my sheets getting home from the beach—and then I looked back. Grandpa shuffled along a yard behind. He was sweating from the exertion, shaking hard without his pill, and dragging each foot carefully so his toe wouldn’t catch and launch the walker out of his hands. I immediately ran back to his side.

The door was just ahead, and I scooped the handle and held it for him. He thanked me and shuffled along, scoot scoot scoot, waiting for me to join him at the counter. “Hello,” the attendant sang, “what can I help you with today?”

I inwardly sighed and gave her a grin. “I’m here to change my license to in-state.”

I shared a smile with grandpa, and took our ticket number. Elongated rows of chairs, spaced out from COVID, clogged the main strip of flooring. Heavy numbers swarmed the seats. Grandpa glanced around, squinting for a chair, chairs occupied by shouting kids and arguing couples and customers on the phone. I found us two seats on the opposite side of the room. They called me for my new photo—and he still got up and followed. Back and forth all day, no complaint.

I will never forget that iron grip that he held onto me with, his strong-knuckled hand resisting the quivers in his fingers, the sound of his shoes scraping the cement. It is a memory of sacrifice and generosity beyond explanation. A new life, all because of him.