Most of Me by Robyn Michele Levy Page A

such invitation presented itself years ago, when Jonathan and I went out on a Saturday night. We ended up at a karaoke bar, and after a few drinks we struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to us, who happened to be a musicologist. And who happened to have written his master’s thesis on one of Jonathan’s all-time favorite Motown musicians: Marvin Gaye. Jonathan was ecstatic. He was also drunk. And soon he was clutching the microphone, channeling the late, great Prince of Motown, belting out “I Heard It through the Grapevine” for everyone to hear. Only, he wasn’t singing in tune or dancing in time, and the musicologist was not amused.
    â€œMake him stop! He’s killing the song!” the musicologist shouted.
    But there was no stopping Jonathan.
    â€œâ€˜I know that a man ain’t supposed to cry, but these tears I can’t hold inside.’”
    â€œI’ll pay him to shut up!” he shouted, pulling twenties from his wallet.
    â€œEncore, you say?” Jonathan roared at the audience.
    The musicologist didn’t stick around for “Mercy Mercy Me.”
    Today, when I tell Jonathan my news, he is caught off guard. At first he thinks I’m joking. I assure him I’m not that funny—but someone up there sure is. Talk about a good cosmic joke: me being diagnosed with Parkinson’s just months after my dad’s diagnosis. Then he says, “You’re going to beat this; don’t you worry! You’re going to get better, you’ll see!”
    Jonathan subscribes to the cheerleader style of moral support.
    â€œBut it’s a degenerative disease. You don’t get better; you get worse,” I whine into the phone.
    This causes him to drop his pom-poms—but only momentarily. He quickly scoops them back up and jumps into another cheer: “The doctor will give you medicine, and everything will be OK .”
    I know he’s trying to be helpful; it’s just that he’s scared. He’s recently married and a new dad—at a stage in life that should be full of blessings and joy. But our dad is sick, so is our mom, and now I am too. And these boo-boos can’t be kissed better.
    At the end of the day, the phone rings, and before I even pick it up I know who it is: my mom. “Daddy told me the news,” she says, and then, without missing a beat, she launches her inquisition: “Do you have a good doctor?” “What’s his name?” “Are you sure it’s Parkinson’s?” “Did you get a second opinion?” “Do you want to fly in to see Daddy’s doctor?” “When is your appointment with the specialist?” “Do you want Daddy’s doctor to call the specialist?” “How special is your specialist?” On and on she goes until I can’t take anymore. I know that bombarding me with these questions is her way of coping, of feeling like she’s in control. I know she loves me and she means well and would do anything to help. But what I need from her right now is compassion, not the third degree. Hell, I’d settle for a pittance of pity—a “poor you” or “there, there” would do just fine. But that’s not what she gives me. So before she can ask me anything else, before I lose my cool and say something I might regret, I say goodnight and abruptly hang up. And then I burst into tears. Where is my compassion?
    Being my mother’s daughter has never been easy. When I was young, I was too sensitive for the job. I never rolled with the punches. I couldn’t sweep things under the carpet. I tended to brood. Had I been hardwired like her, things might have been different between the two of us. We might have been closer; I might have had more fun. She certainly never allowed misery to get in the way of her having a good time. She could switch from angry mode to party mode in the blink of an eye. Watching this transformation