by Johnny Diaz
“Yeah, it’s the same guy. My father has Parkinson’s, and the disease is aging him more than usual. He looks ten years older than he should.” I softly take back the framed photo and let my fingers graze the glass. I frown.
“I’m sorry, Professor.”
“You can call me Gabriel. I’m not really your professor anymore.”
Craig places a comforting hand on my right shoulder. “My grandmother had Parkinson’s too. I know what my mom, aunts, and uncles had to deal with, so you have my sympathy, Professor, I mean, Gabriel. But your father still looks like he’s in good shape. He looks like a strong guy, a fighter.”
“He is. He still drives and works, and he calls me every night.”
“Every night? That’s so sweet. My parents call me once a week, and that’s a good week. We don’t talk too often. I guess it’s different with Latin families.”
I follow Craig’s eyes as they explore the other framed photos on my shelf. Some of them are with Papi and others are with my mom.
“You have a beautiful family. And it looks like your dad is dealing with the Parkinson’s better that my grandmother. She was in a wheelchair and had trouble breathing. It’s a horrible disease. I watched her lose control of her body. No one should have to go through that.”
I turn to Craig and look deep into his eyes. “I’m sorry about your grandmother too.”
“Thanks. To honor her, I wanted to do a project for my TV Images class on how Parkinson’s can affect caretakers. I was thinking of interviewing my mom and our doctor and talking about what’s being done to fight the disease. I know I can get video footage about Michael J. Fox from ABC News archives to show how much more attention the disease has received in recent years.”
“I bet you’d have a lot of interest!”
“Hope so!” Craig says, placing his hands on his waist to emphasize his point.
We stand silently in the corner of my living room, the lights from the street slanting through my balcony’s sliding glass door. I lose myself in Craig’s eyes as I study where the pupil and brown shades intersect. His eyes bore right back into mine. Craig tilts his head slightly to the right and suddenly uses back of his hand to brush my cheek softly. I close my eyes and surrender to the touch. Through the veil of my eyelashes, I see Craig’s soft lips grace mine.
As we kiss gently, I feel the small, fuzzy hairs from his crew cut tickle my face. I begin to giggle, which makes Craig burst into a wide smile. I forget about school and my parents and allow myself to flow with this moment. Craig intrigues me, and I don’t know why, but I am drawn to him. I just don’t see him as a former student. I see him as a young man with a lot of possibility. My heart melted like warm butter after hearing about his love for his late grandmother and how he wants to honor her. But I don’t want this moment to go too far. I want to get to know him some more. He’s like a promising new and exciting story that continues to unfold and write itself.
“Bueno, Craig, this has been nice and all, but I think you should use the bathroom and get going,” I say. I need him to leave before I do something stupid such as jump his bones in my alcohol-induced fog.
“Professor Tease!” he remarks, walking toward the bathroom down my hallway, which is decorated with posters of Star Trek and classic Cuban tourist advertisements.
“Hmm. I see you’re a big Star Trek fan,” he says, pausing in front of the poster of the Enterprise crew that hangs on the wall across from the bathroom door.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Remember the episode with the Tribbles and how they invaded the ship?” he says, his voice echoing from inside the bathroom.
“Yeah, that’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine too,” he says, flushing the toilet, which is followed by the sounds of the running water. He then reappears in the hallway and approaches me.
“Well, we’ll have to have a Star Trek date night. There’s more to you than meets the eye, Prof. And here I thought you were just a very nice, handsome professor. I had no idea you liked Star Trek and that your dad has Parkinson’s. We have so much in common. I want to hear more about your family, more about you.”
“Same here,” I say, caressing his right arm. I start pitching a tent in my pants.
He kisses me long and deep, and his touch charges me like electricity. I savor the moment and then walk him to the door. “Do you remember how to get out of here?”
“Of course, this is Quincy. Just over the bridge from Boston.” He winks and happily waves as he heads toward the elevator. When he’s out of view, I close my front door and lean my back against it and look at my empty apartment. I start to wonder, Who is this Anchorman, and more importantly, what am I getting myself into?
Chapter 6
PARKINSON’S disease. I punch the words into a computer in the research pod in the third-floor library at Thomas Jefferson College. Between classes, I’ve been trying to arm myself with the latest articles on the disease.
I know the basics of the condition as a result of Papi’s first diagnosis years ago. In my mind, I thought if he took his pills, remained active, and ate well, that he’d be able to manage it as he has been since I moved to Boston. Perhaps I’ve been in denial that this disease will slowly take my father away from me. Deep down inside, I believed that it was a manageable condition that he could live with and still remain active in his everyday life.
I’ve noticed in my last two trips to Miami, Papi’s voice has grown softer. He walks in shorter steps and he stands more hunched. Yet whenever I see him, he puts his best face forward, which makes me think that he’s fine. Macho pride. The phone call from Aunt Cary served as a catalyst for me to take Papi’s condition more seriously than I had before. I’ve been a passive son. Now I must be an active one and take more of a hands-on approach with Papi’s health. If I don’t, who will?
I’m sitting in the middle of this brightly lit library where students lug research books, articles, and magazines from the reserve desk to the rows of wooden desks, where they read and type. While they do homework, I delve into the history of the disease, advances, and breakthroughs.
One article says that symptoms of Parkinson’s disease can be traced back to medieval times, but the disorder wasn’t officially recognized until 1817, when a British doctor named James Parkinson penned An Essay on the Shaking Palsy, which highlighted symptoms of six people who had the disease that would eventually bear his name. Another article details how, in the 1950s, a Swedish scientist named Arvid Carlsson documented the biochemical changes in the brain of Parkinson’s patients. He was credited with publishing reports of improvements in patients who took levodopa, the drug that has become the standard for treating Parkinson’s.
I spend an hour Googling different organizations, support groups, and various definitions of the disease. I learn that despite all the research, there’s still no cure for Parkinson’s, which afflicts more than 1.5 million Americans. Like Papi, most patients take a daily mix of pills that slow the progress of the disease, which occurs when brain cells that produce dopamine die off. Dopamine is a naturally produced chemical that transmits the signals that control muscle movement. When dopamine-producing cells are destroyed, people start to lose their balance, coordination, and muscle control.
Papi.
The articles reinforce what I already know, but they serve as good reminders. I can never learn enough about something that is aging my dad and slowly stealing his flexibility and self-control.
I rest my eyes from all the research, and I lean back in my chair and glance around the library. Students dash in and out, whispering about their classes and weekend plans. Others hunch over their books and sit by the large glass windows that offer a stunning view of the Boston Common and the historic buildings that hug Tremont and Boylston streets. The sun pours into the library, making it slightly stuffy. I peel off my forest-green windbreaker and loop it around the back of my chair.
I stretch and yawn loudly, which momentarily disrupts the students
sitting near me. When I return to the article I was reading, a familiar sweet voice interrupts my concentration.
“Hey, Professor!” I turn around and see Craig’s handsome face. A tingling sensation fills me. He’s a great sight for eyes that have been buried in Parkinson’s literature.
“Hey, you! Doing some research?” I say, yawning again.
“Yeah. I was reading some of the papers and news magazines for an assignment for my Beat Reporting class. I saw you deep in concentration and just wanted to say hi. So, hi!” he says, standing next to me. I’m at eye level with his abs, which I imagine are lean and tight. Craig wears his trademark navy-blue sports jacket, a white dress shirt, and blue jeans. Mr. Anchorman. “So what are you up to, Professor?”
“I’m on a break and doing some research on Parkinson’s. Just seeing if there’s anything out there that can help my dad when I visit him in a few days.”
“Actually, you’d be surprised how many research studies have been done, but there are no long-term results yet. Exercise seemed to help my Grammy, I mean, grandmother. That’s what we used to call her. She felt better after some working out, but she started doing it after she was placed in a wheelchair. At least the arm exercises put a smile on her face, Professor. It was cute watching her lift two-pound dumbbells.” As he smiles at the memory, tiny lines form around his eyes.
“Craig, you can call me Gabriel, remember? I’m not your professor anymore.”
“Yeah, sorry. My bad. Speaking of… when are we going to hang out? I have some projects I’m in the middle of for school, but I’m hoping we can get a bite to eat and chat and maybe watch some old Star Trek episodes,” Craig says with interest.
Sitting in my chair, I look up at him and lose myself in his beautiful light-brown eyes. The fluorescent library lights highlight his brown fuzzy hair and add a twinkle to each eye. Besides his looks, what I really like about Craig is hearing him talk about his grandmother. He obviously loved her very much. We have a common bond because of Parkinson’s.
“How about when I get back from Miami?” I say.
Craig’s face brightens. “You got it, Prof—I mean, Gabriel,” he says, catching his error. He puts a comforting hand on the top of my back. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I have to get to my next class.”
“Me too. Talk to you soon, Craig.”
“Ditto,” he says, with a wink. With his messenger bag looped across his torso, he bounds out of the library.
I use the extra few minutes before my class begins to read some more articles. I find one from a medical journal that states that there are no exact causes of the disease but several working theories. One of them holds that Parkinson’s may result from a combination of genetics and a vulnerability to environmental toxins, along with exposure to these toxins. Toxins? I wonder what kind. I continue reading. The suspected toxins are found in certain pesticides and in metals such as iron or manganese.
My eyes pause on the word “pesticides.” Papi has been an exterminator for the past thirty years. When I was younger, before the divorce, I had noticed Papi mixing the chemicals in the garage, but he always wore gloves. Years of spraying in the hotels and apartment buildings and breathing in the toxins could have affected his nervous system. It’s something to consider and to ask his doctor about.
All these thoughts rumble in my head over the next few days, which pass uneventfully, making them feel longer. I follow my routine: my classes, the gym, and running along the seawall in Quincy. When I bump into Craig in the hallways at school, we chat briefly and exchange flirtatious grins that remind me of the night we kissed. Even in the bustling corridors at Jefferson, I want to steal a kiss from him, but I can wait.
I also keep tabs on Papi over the phone until my trip home, which is just around the corner. In the meantime, Mami continues to call me nightly, and I tell her what’s been happening with Papi and in my daily life. Our conversations always begin with the weather.
“Gabrielito, is it cold up there?” she says, using her speakerphone in the kitchen. Her small kitchen radio plays tropical pop music in the background. Whenever she calls me, her voice sounds muffled as if she’s using one of those walkie-talkies because she speaks too loudly into the phone. You’d think the phone was in her throat.
“Not yet. It’s cooling down. I have to wear a jacket or windbreaker when I leave the apartment,” I say as I stroll in my neighborhood after work later that week. “You’d really like Boston in fall, Mami. I know how much you love flowers and colors. I have to get you up here sometime.”
“Bueno, not when it’s cold. I can wait for spring. I don’t want the cold weather to affect my sinuses, hijo.”
We move on from discussing the weather, and I quickly tell her about my classes and that yes, I took her Shaklee vitamins this morning. I also tell her the latest about Papi’s recent medical issues and how I’m surprised that he doesn’t do a better job of keeping me up to date with his Parkinson’s.
“Bueno, I’m not surprised. Guillermo is un stubborn pig. He’s not going to tell you how he’s really doing because he doesn’t want you to worry, mi amor,” my mother says. As we talk, the sky is a smear or reds and oranges. The sun begins to set earlier with each passing day. I walk and step on the damp, colorful leaves that dot the sidewalks.
“I’ve always been puzzled why Papi has Parkinson’s. No one else has it in the Galan family, right?”
“Ay, hijo. No. Your aunt and your father’s cousins and abuelos never had anything like that, just high blood pressure. We don’t know why Guillermo has this terrible disease,” she says, her voice laced with concern.
“I was doing some research the other day at the college, and an article stated that chemicals like pesticides that affect the nervous system might be partially to blame.”
My mom sighs on the other end of the line. “Bueno, Gabriel, when Guillermo and I got married in Cuba, we applied for a visa to leave and to meet up with the rest of the family in Miami. Your Papi was forced to work in the fields for six months because we applied for the visa. We had just been married. It was very hard, hijo. We were newlyweds. I saved as much money as I could from working as a waitress at a coffee shop while Guillermo sent me letters from the farm where he was assigned to work.”
I remember Papi telling me about this a long time ago. But what does this have to do with Parkinson’s? As Mami continues her story, I squat down on the cool sand along the bay.
“Guillermo worked in the tobacco fields, and he mixed the chemicals for the pesticides. He used his hands. They didn’t use gloves or precautions. Things were different back then.”
I’m stunned by the revelation. “He used his bare hands to mix the chemicals, Ma?”
“Sí, but everyone did in those days. Remember, this was Cuba in the 1960s. Who knows what damage that could have caused to Guillermo’s system?” Mami says. Despite her strong I-don’t-care front toward Papi, I know she still cares deeply about him. It surfaces whenever I bring up his health.
“He was thirty years old. Guillermo never had any health issues in his life. It wasn’t until his right hand started shaking a few years ago that we knew something was wrong. That’s when Dr. Reyes told us he suspected that Guillermo had the early signs of Parkinson’s.” When my mom pronounces the word, it sounds more like Pahr-keen-son’s. Her accent is endearing and reminds me of home.
“Ma, that may explain how he got it. If those chemicals are intended to kill insects and bugs, imagine the effect they can have on a person in the long run? I’ll keep doing some research. Thanks, Mom. We can talk about this more when I get to Fort Lauderdale. I’ll be there before you know it, and I’m looking forward to seeing you too. I miss your flan. I’ve tried to replicate it, but it’s not the same.”
“That’s because you don’t add enough evaporated milk, mi amor,” she says, her voice lifting with pride as she talks about her sweet concoction, which is always a hit at family gatherings. “I can pick you up from the airport and bring you hom
e. I want you to spend your first night here, okay? You have the rest of your stay to see Guillermo.”
There she goes again, putting me in the middle of her and Papi. Whenever I visit, I have to split my visit between her house in Fort Lauderdale and Papi’s apartment in Miami Lakes. Mami gets jealous if I spend too much time with Papi.
“I’ll prepare all your favorite foods, and the bedroom is just as you left it. Sometimes I walk in there and think I’ll see you sleeping in there like you used to before you moved to Boston.” I remember Mami knocking softly on my door to wake me up each day for classes at FIU or, later on, for work at as a cub reporter. She always greeted me with a cup of café. She enjoyed doting on me, especially after Papi moved out. I also believe she feels safer with me at the house even though she has a high-tech alarm system and lives in a middle-class suburban development slightly west of Fort Lauderdale.
“You got it, Mami. I’ll talk to you and see you soon.”
“I love you, Gabriel!”
“Love you too, Ma,” I say before hanging up and completing my neighborhood stroll.
Chapter 7
IT’S two o’clock in the afternoon, and the American Airlines flight hums and hovers over the South Florida coastline. The pilot announces that we’ll be landing shortly. With the few minutes I have, I gaze out the oval window and soak up the view. I marvel at the colossal beachfront condos and high-rises, the golden sandy beaches and the white-tipped waves that lick them. In the distance, the Sun Life Stadium, where the Miami Dolphins and the Florida Marlins play, beckons. Farther west, the Everglades shimmer with golden marshlands, murky waters, and a sea of sawgrass.
The plane gently swerves west, and the pilot slowly descends into Miami International Airport. Before I know it, we land and thump along the runway. Once on the ground, everyone begins to clap. I never understood this, but the passenger applause only seems to happen when I fly into Miami.