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Wednesday, August 8, 2001 Battle the witch My mom, like unpaid caregivers everywhere, is a real-life hero By THANE BURNETT, TORONTO SUN HALIFAX, N.S. -- Late one night in 1969, as I slept and likely dreamed of heroic journeys with my Major Matt Mason action figure, the witch came into my room to hold me down. I had never heard that old Maritime expression before. At six years old, I only knew I was suddenly wide awake but unable to move a muscle. My arms and legs would not bend. My fingers couldn't clutch my blankets to pull them off my chest. And, while I tried to yell out, my voice was gone. For what seemed like an hour, but was likely less than a minute, the invisible witch sat on me and held me prisoner on that tiny bed under the gaze of a black cat clock attached to the wall. Finally, the spell was almost broken. I could call out, but it was more of a whisper in the dark than a scream in the night. I don't know whether my sailor father was out at sea, but my small cry for help was enough to wake my mother. She was suddenly there, rubbing my arms and brushing the hair from my forehead and helping me to sit up. Just a bad dream, she explained. I was wide awake and no longer afraid. The witch was gone and never held me down again. Now, 32 years later, it's late at night, and I am sleeping beside my wife at our family cottage. And I hear the same kind of whisper in the dark. But not from my children, who doze in the room I used when I was a boy. The small voice is from my father. I'm grabbing the T-shirt I've tossed at the end of the bed and quickly make my way into my parents' room. I'm rushing, so my exhausted mother -- finally asleep in the living room -- will not wake as I go to my father. His hospital bed is dwarfed by his long 6-foot-3 frame, but for just this moment, my 66-year-old father is like a six-year-old boy I once knew. He wants to get up. But he's just lying there -- frozen. His legs will not bend. His fingers cannot clutch the blankets. His voice is small. The witch has returned, for another night, to hold this man down. For him, they call it Parkinson's disease. A nearby fabric bag is heavy with the potent, expensive and steady diet of medicines he uses to fight the neurological affliction, as well as a new blood disorder that circles his weakened system like a jackal. I believe -- rather than any pill -- it's astounding will and a strength I will never match that keeps him, during his best days, walking forward with a cowboy hat on his head and no cane in his hand. He's always been larger than life -- a once brawling sailor who's been tossed out of the worst port bars on a dozen coasts and will always be the truest man I know. But the disease now toys with his mind and body, leaving him alone one minute, before returning to turn his limbs to stone at the next step. It's a cruel dance with the witch, and it seems worse at night, when he wakes up and can only stare at a wall and whisper for help in the dark. On most nights, he will awaken at least a half-dozen times. Each time, my mother goes to him. But rather than brush a brow and hug a child, as she did for me, she must now pull the dead weight of a 200-plus-pound man up and out of bed. She must get him whatever he needs to be comfortable, for a short while. Then she returns to her bed and waits for the next whisper to come. She doesn't really sleep. She closes her eyes and waits. We are here on vacation. My parents usually go home to their condo, but tonight, with coaxing, they have stayed with us. She doesn't want to keep us awake. I want her to sleep. So I hurry. And I whisper too, asking my father what I can do for him. But his voice is so soft I can hardly hear him. And even after a few times getting up, I am exhausted. The room is so hot but my father is cold, and needs another layer of clothes. I am about equal his size, and it takes all my strength to lift him up and get him dressed. The witch holds him tight. I find my patience wearing -- and it's only 4 a.m. My mother -- and thousands of caregivers like her -- have done this dance, night after night, for years. And they do it largely alone -- in apartments and homes where children have long moved away. Some have hired help. Many do not. Watching my parents, I now understand heroism better than I did when I dreamed of Major Matt Mason. Back in 1969, my mother saved me from the clutches of the witch. Tonight, as she finally sleeps, I can't do the same for my Dad. And I am truly afraid. More afraid than that six-year-old boy, frozen under the eyes of his black cat clock. SOURCE: The Toronto Sun http://www.canoe.ca/TorontoNews/ts.ts-08-08-0026.html * * * ---------------------------------------------------------------------- To sign-off Parkinsn send a message to: mailto:[log in to unmask] In the body of the message put: signoff parkinsn