I pressed his palm against my cheek and held it there as he talked.
“I’m tired of carrying all this anger and resentment, Samuel. It’s too fucking heavy.” Nick freed his hand to wipe a fat tear from my cheek, his beautiful mouth curving up in a slow smile that melted my heart. “I have the world to live for now”—his gaze drilled into mine—“and I don’t want old grudges and bitterness fucking things up.”
Samuel was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his rough voice said it all. “That’s good to hear, mate. That’s really, really good to hear.”
The call to Samuel’s girlfriend, Jerry, was much lighter in tone. We caught her in the car about to head home from Golden Oaks where she ruled the reception desk. She asked if I was the designated caller because Nick was in trouble with Samuel?
“Absolutely.” I happily threw my lover under the bus.
She laughed. “You’re such a bad boy.”
“Are you two done making fun of me?” Nick grumbled.
“Never,” Jerry shot back. “The opportunity doesn’t come often enough. I can’t wait to get home and find out exactly howmuch trouble you’re in. Must be spectacular if you won’t tell me.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Can we just get on with this, please? Have I told you how much of a pain in the butt you’ve become since you moved in with my brother-in-law?”
Which earned him another laugh from Jerry. “Every time you see me, cupcake. How can I help you?”
I posed our question regarding Parkinson’s, and Jerry told us what she knew about its symptoms and progression. She wasn’t a nurse herself, but she’d worked in long-term care most of her career and was a fount of knowledge. “I’m no expert,” she warned when she was done. “But I’ve just seen someone who is. Claire!” She shouted the name of one of the registered nurses at Golden Oaks. “Have you got a minute?”
“Sure,” Claire’s soft voice came from somewhere close by.
“Great. Madigan and Nick have a question for you.”
A few seconds later, Claire’s curious voice came down the line. “Boys? How can I be of service?”
I repeated my question and Claire rattled off a whole list of possible symptoms that Nick recorded on his phone. Chloe fit some of them but not others.
“There are commonly shared things like slowness of movement, muscle tremors, muscle stiffness, a mask-like facial expression, and balance issues,” Claire explained. “They come and go at first but slowly become the norm until they’re there all the time. But they do vary in intensity from person to person, and they can be quite vague. It’s a nasty disease.”
“And it’s cause?” Nick asked.
“There’s no single cause,” she answered, not really helping. “It’s diagnosed from an overall clinical picture of someone, not just one thing. It can be influenced by genetic components, drugs, toxins, head trauma, brain inflammation, medication reactions, and so on.”
“So, basically anything,” I muttered.
“Anything that might adversely affect the brain, yes,” Claire confirmed. “That’s why brain imaging is usually needed to rule out other possibilities like strokes or tumours.”
I caught Nick’s eye. Nothing had been mentioned about scans.
Claire continued, “It doesn’t usually show up until after sixty, but it can start a lot earlier in some. Basically, a part of your brain begins to deteriorate, and the symptoms get progressively worse as the deterioration expands. It targets the brain’s neurotransmitters, which means your brain cells have trouble communicating with each other.”
“So, confusion and memory loss would be expected?” I asked.
“Yes, although they tend to develop later,” she explained. “Depression, difficulty concentrating, all of those. A high percentage also develop dementia down the track. As I said, it’s a nasty disease.”
I looked sideways at Nick and caught the pain in his eyes. He’d only just reconnected with his mother and already the clock was ticking. I asked the question I knew he’d be asking himself. “How quickly does it move from diagnosis to dementia or an inability to care for yourself?”
Claire sighed. “That depends on when it’s diagnosed and if it responds to treatment. Some do better than others. A few years to a great deal longer. It’s variable.”
Everythingwas variable, it seemed.
The line went quiet for a moment before Claire asked in a softer tone, “Is this about a family member?”
I caught Nick’s eye, and the misery I saw there almost broke me.
“Yes,” he said, leaning closer to the phone. “My mother was diagnosed last year.”
