Most of Me by Robyn Michele Levy Page B

always amazed me.
    I can remember family fights erupting while we were getting ready to go to a wedding or a bar mitzvah. By the time we were all dressed and heading out the door, we were in the mood to attend a funeral, not a celebration. But the moment my mom stepped out of the car, she leapt into her favorite role: the life of the party. Her attempts to coax me onto the dance floor were futile. I preferred sulking in a chair, where I’d catch glimpses of her bright red hair and glittery gown, twirling the night away.
    She always loved being the center of attention. She still does. She’s sixty-four years old and shamelessly dyes her shoulder-length hair Atomic Pink. Or High Octane Orange. Or Cherry Bomb Red. Colors that scream: Look at me! Look at me! According to my mom, the brighter, the better. The more flash, the more fun. And according to my dad, the more vibrant, the more visible. Years ago, while visiting the Vatican, they wandered off in different directions. My dad says it took him just thirty seconds to spot my mom in a crowd of fifteen thousand people. Another time, when they got separated at Disney World, he saw her riding a roller coaster five miles away.
    After all these years, she’s still a party girl at heart. She’s still devouring distractions to feed her insatiable appetite for escape. And in my mind, she’s still a fiery force to be reckoned with—particularly at this vulnerable time in my life. Maybe that’s why it’s hard for me to imagine anyone or anything powerful enough to extinguish her flame. Even inoperable lung cancer. But deep down, I know that she must be suffering. And I’m sorry I’m not the kind of daughter who makes motherhood easy for her, particularly at this vulnerable time in her life when no number of Hollywood movies or shopping sprees or travel adventures can drown out the sound of her ticking time bomb or hide the unsettling truth that her family is slowly self-destructing.
    ANOTHER MORNING , another breakfast with the Lucky Ones. The way I’m feeling, I could easily squeeze in between Lessing and Lewington:
    Robyn Michele Levy passed away peacefully into her bowl of organic cornflakes. She leaves behind a ripe kiwi, a fistful of pills, her teenage daughter, and her devoted husband. In lieu of flowers, donations to her MasterCard account would be appreciated.
    NO WTHAT I’VE told my family, the fun of telling my friends begins. When I was in grade school, I always liked show and tell. There was something tantalizingly voyeuristic about inspecting other people’s stuff: their treasured object, coveted collection, peculiar pet, extraordinary scar. Occasionally, a kid would even bring in a person and beam, “My dad, the dentist” or “My mom, the pastry chef.” While we appreciated these guests and their gifts of toothbrushes and puff pastry, we secretly wished a student would bring in someone scary, someone sinister—“Meet my uncle, the axe murderer”—if only to see what kind of souvenirs he would hand out.
    Parkinson’s disease has rekindled my interest in playing show and tell with friends. And based on the “oohs” and “aahs” I’m getting, it’s clear that we adults (at least the ones I hang out with) haven’t outgrown this voyeuristic childhood activity. Especially when it appeals to our fascination with the grotesque—which I fear I am becoming.
    â€œWatch this,” I say, holding up my hands in front of my face, swiveling them side to side, as if I’m screwing in a pair of light bulbs. At first both hands are synchronized, but suddenly my left hand freezes in place, the built-up tension causing it to tremor and jolt. My right hand carries on, oblivious and obliging, until I will it to stop.
    â€œI have Parkinson’s disease. So far, only the left side of my body is affected.”
    At this point I ask, “Would you like me to show you