I first noticed something wrong in 2011. While I was walking downstairs, my feet didn't seem in sync with my brain, my balance was off, and I worried about tripping. Visits with doctors were inconclusive. As time went on, other symptoms developed—I had tremors and trouble swallowing, and my head started to shake—and I was officially diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2017. My neurologist called it atypical because of its sudden intensity. Over the next two years, things worsened. I stuttered when trying to form words, every muscle seemed rigid, and I had leg tremors and jerks that made walking difficult. With these symptoms, work became impossible, and I retired from my job as a genealogist in 2019 at age 54.
Postretirement, I settled into a routine of relative inactivity. As my body changed, so did my emotions. I argued less, loved more genuinely, and felt compassion more sincerely. I was less judgmental and found I loved people, places, and things for what they were. If a server got my food order wrong at a restaurant, I saw it as an opportunity to try something new. If somebody yelled at me, I figured they needed someone to listen to them. I saw family, neighbors, former classmates, and others in a new light. I sought forgiveness from those I knew I had been unfair to. I was grateful for my challenges and what they had brought me.
I appreciated my new vulnerability and accepted my reduced physicality. But something wasn't quite right. I knew I was deteriorating, but I didn't care. I felt like I was quitting.
That attitude changed one evening in 2020 when my daughter wrecked her car while driving home from college. The car rolled several times and was smashed beyond recognition. I remember the terror I felt getting the late-night call and during the tense two-hour drive to the hospital. Seeing my daughter lying there, I had a sudden and sharp realization that I needed to be more present. I wanted to be there to soothe, support, and lead my family as much as possible. My resolve to stop deteriorating strengthened as I watched my daughter make a full recovery.
Throughout the winter and into the spring of 2021, I moved and walked more, even when I didn't want to. I began to take trips to small stores without a mobility cart and even occasionally ventured to the mailbox without a cane. I would sometimes collapse for days after a particularly strenuous afternoon, but I would pick up where I left off as soon as I could.
As a result, during our annual camping trip that year, I was able to help pack, set up camp, prepare meals, and walk to the lakeside (although a little cautiously at times, and always with my cane for balance). Even though I got frustrated when I found I could no longer tie a fisherman's knot, my children were unfazed and stepped up to tie it for me. They carried my chair and pole. Together, we were unstoppable.
That summer, I often reclined in my favorite chair and reflected on how Parkinson's had shaped and forged a person that I would now never trade for health or wealth. My journey has been hard and filled with obstacles, but the gifts—renewed energy, new experiences, smiles on the faces of my wife and children—are worth it.
E. Wade Hone is a former professional genealogist who specialized in Eastern European and Russian research. He’s the author of Land & Property Research in the United States. He lives in West Jordan, UT, with his wife, Julie, and two of their three children.
