Northwest Parkinson's Foundation

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Changing a Battery Part II

Monday March 25, 2019

I don’t know a lot about cars, but I understand that they’re similar to the human body. And I really don’t know much about those, either. I do like the metaphor. I like it even if we vivify cars when we compare them to people…(don’t cars get enough space? money? screen time? Do they need existential stuff, too?).

It goes both ways: if cars are like us, then our bodies are like theirs. Our mechanics, so to speak, just use more elevators and gallons of hand sanitizer. Our garages are extra fluorescent.

This metaphor only works for so long. But I was thinking about it while driving my dad’s car to the hospital, and I was able to realize something about human health. It was like a hand, deft and gentle, in my brain. A hand just barely moving something over.

My dad got his other battery replaced a few months ago. It wasn’t completely dead this time, but we were cutting it close. When a Deep-Brain Stimulation [DBS] battery starts to flicker out in the middle of December, my family is very ready to schedule a last-minute replacement, insurance claims and all. So we jumped easily to the hospital rather than a holiday blockbuster. Bumblebee seems like a good example of what we took a pass on.

Cars, people, hospitals. Outpatient procedures. Battery replacements are much simpler than other parts.

He was more anxious than usual before his latest operation. Our friends and family make jokes about my dad’s savvy patienthood, how pro he is at being experimented on. But he’s getting tired.

We locked eyes in the waiting room and, with a small shake of the head, he let out some of the fear and fatigue in a couple of tears. So did I. We held hands.

Pretty soon we were back to joking. Parkinson’s has nothing on my dad’s ability to make himself laugh. I really love that about him, his very style of smiling and bobbing up and down with total satisfaction.

My brother, sister, and I always pass my dad's jokes along in our group chat, knowing just how it will reach each other, right from his crackle to our own. It's his version of standup.

After his battery replacement, my dad was groggy and stained by that orange antibacterial soap.

He was also dazed, hungry, and had no patience for a wheelchair. But he shook hands with Michael, who pushed him out of the hospital basement and to our car. It was dark at 4:00 pm.

I ran ahead through the rain to pull the Kia from the garage. I thought I’d lost the ticket as I rolled my right hand inside my purse, my left hand clutching his golden Rock Steady Boxing glove key chain.

Ouch! There it was, sharply square in a side pocket.

I ran across crooked cement. In minutes I drove back over it, wondering why hospitals don't seem to comp for patient parking anymore.

They were waiting under the eaves as I pulled up.

I know I’ll remember my dad holding onto Michael’s shoulder, trying to get his attention as Michael assisted my dad into the car. I’ll remember them finally meeting each other’s eyes - not long. Hands meet. Heads nod. Rain.

We drove away from surgery, willing through traffic, moving, moving. Moving towards a very large dinner.

-Bette Jane Camp

Are you interested in sharing your writing? There are many ways to lend your voice alongside the Northwest Parkinson's community. Contact BetteJane@NWPF.org to learn more!

For more community writing this spring, help raise awareness and check out Parkinson's & Poetry.

Photo by michael podger on Unsplash

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Changing a Battery Part II

Monday March 25, 2019

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