Mom was right. We cannot control others. So, we just put on some lipstick and carry on. That was her motto during the Second World War when Dad was an army surgeon. That was her motto as a mom, nana, widow, and dying at 96.
We plod along the sidewalk. Stewart stops. I hand him the round thing, my thermos. He is the ultimate gentleman, always walking on the outside, carrying my books, just like his dad did for his mom, back in the day. We move on down the street, holding hands to keep track of each other, as I kick stones out of his path.
We talked about actual exercise, not just his occasional swing of a golf club in the backyard. He was dismayed that his limb and core strength were gone. I suggested that every time he had that thought, he lift his hand-weights, do some planks. He nodded and continued to Google, assuring me that he would exercise “at some point.” I asked about backward-walking and balancing on one foot, common exercises for PD patients. He nodded again. We were both tired of my nagging.
I think of our decades-long careers and Stewart’s sartorial splendour. A soft, silk tie, perfectly ironed French-cuffed shirt, tailored suit, and shined loafers. Subtle aftershave – so handsome. He’s on the drug now and though it has side effects, he is more like himself. He has contemplative moments and the classic PD frown but he is still funny and loving. And he has signed up for PD physio.