Most of Me by Robyn Michele Levy

Toronto. But that would require cash and courage—two things I’m short of these days. So the phone it is.
    â€œAre you sitting down?”
    It’s the cliché question that bad news is about to be conveyed. But considering my dad’s health and state of mind, he shouldn’t be standing up for this news.
    â€œI’m sitting down now. Just give me a minute. Is everybody OK ?”
    I can feel his anxiety level rising.
    â€œDad, I have Parkinson’s disease. I was just diagnosed the other day.”
    He takes a few deep breaths and then says, “And I thought you were going to tell me something terrible. Parkinson’s isn’t so bad. We can help each other.”
    His pragmatism surprises me, makes me smile. Maybe Parkinson’s isn’t as bad as I thought it was.
    After a short silence, he says, “Do you want to tell Mom? I can get her to pick up the phone.”
    â€œCan you break the news?” I ask, feeling weary and vulnerable.
    â€œSure, I’ll tell her.”
    Now that I’ve told my dad—who is telling my mom—next on my list is my sister. Fern is three years younger than me. She’s married to Bob, and they live in the burbs with their two young kids, Kayla and Josh. We get along much better now, living three thousand miles apart, than we did as girls sharing a bedroom. Back then, we did our best to bring out the worst in each other: taunting, teasing, insulting, ignoring. We were so good at fighting, we could start a war with just a dirty look. But usually we had legitimate reasons to tattletale on each other: “She was hogging the popcorn!” “She wouldn’t let me watch my TV show!” “It was my turn to use the washroom!” “She was spying on me when I was making out with my boyfriend!”
    Finding common ground wasn’t easy. We were so different: I was the tall early bloomer, full of curves and cleavage; Fern was the petite late bloomer, all skinny and flat. I was painfully shy and kept my mouth shut; Fern was extroverted and mouthed off to anyone, even the school principal. I could hold a grudge longer; she could forgive faster. I was an A student, motivated by a neurotic fear of failure; she was an average student who didn’t know the emotional price I paid for trying to be perfect.
    I’ve since apologized to Fern for being such a mean big sister. And now that we’re both moms, our sisterhood has slowly blossomed. No wonder, when I break the news about having Parkinson’s, it hits her hard. Twice. Not only is she devastated to hear I have this disease, but she’s also shocked to find out that I’m even sick—have been sick for years. She had no idea. But how could she, when I haven’t revealed my vulnerability to her or complained about my mysterious symptoms and depression? Instead, I have listened patiently to hours of her personal problems over the telephone. She says had she known what I was going through, she would never have burdened me with her complaints. She would have tried to help me. She’s sorry. So am I. Living on the other side of Canada has made it easy to fool my family and myself, to hide my failing health, to pretend everything is OK . Even if it means sacrificing closeness to my sister.
    My brother, Jonathan, is next. As with my sister, I’ve kept him in the dark. He is six years younger than me—an age gap that was wide enough to separate our egos and protect us from intense sibling rivalry. We still fought, but never as much as I fought with Fern or she fought with him.
    I used to worry about my brother. When he was growing up, he was impulsive, unpredictable, and hard to tame—qualities that often landed him in trouble. But he was also charming, funny, and warm-hearted, and it was these qualities that eventually took center stage. The wild child was still there, waiting in the wings. All he needed was an invitation to lure him out.
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