It seems impossible, but I remember being six months old, enjoying a summer day at the pool with my Safta Sarah; Safta being the hebrew term for Grandmother. Singing a happy tune and navigating through the water as I sat atop an orange floatie, she offered the comfort that only a grandmother could provide. In her eyes I could do no wrong, in her world I would remain innocent forever, and if ever I needed her, she would be there.
I'm not sure whether it’s because that is the last moment untouched by her disease I can recall, or because it was one of the happiest of my young life, but I do know it is a scene that replays in my memory from time to time.
My Safta Sarah was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease shortly after that day at the pool. She was just 62 years old. A degenerative disease that effects the central nervous system, the symptoms stem from the increasing demise of dopamine-generating cells in the substantia nigra region of the midbrain, preventing those affected from being able to control their own muscles. This, in turn, makes it merely impossible to perform simple, everyday tasks.
With no cure yet found, modern treatments are given to offer assistance in managing the early motor symptoms of the disease. However, as the Parkinson’s progresses, such drugs are no longer effective and the afflicted party has no choice but to sacrifice their freedom to the cruel hands of this unflinching foe.
The following memories I have of my Safta Sarah are very few. Virtually immobilized by her illness, she was forced into a nursing home in Israel -- where my father’s side of the family is from -- not able to visit her family in the states, eat on her own, or even form proper words.
At the age of 12 I saw her for the last time. She couldn’t even say my name, but her smile was all I needed to know she was happy to see me.
A few months after her passing I learned that my father had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. He was 50 years old at the time. My father, the strongest man I had ever known. A man who backs down for nothing, loves with all his heart, and never shows any sign of weakness; my father would not succumb so easily.
Brave, virtuous, and heroic, my father took control of his circumstance before it had the chance to control him. Without want of pity, he relayed to us without words that we had no need to worry or cry; our father would still be the strength we needed, the rock we relied on.
He may need a cane, but he walks along the cliff side with me and my sisters when we journey to the mountains; he may stumble, but he takes the stairs even when there is a ramp to its side; he may be in pain, but he laughs along to the sounds of love, hopeful about the future and excited about tomorrow.
Even heroes have their weaknesses, however, and as much as it pains me to realize, my father will not be able to regulate his condition forever. Until there is a cure, those stricken with Parkinson’s disease have only so long until they are too limited in physical and mental ability to even enjoy the simple pleasures that come so easily to others.
And so, I ask of you, let us walk to find a cure.
On Saturday, April 25th, I will be walking with my sister in the Parkinson’s Unity Walk in Central Park. The largest grassroots Parkinson’s event in the U.S, the Parkinson’s Unity Walk is held annually in April, raising awareness and funds for research, with 100% of the donations given to the latter.
Inspired by our father’s invigorating and iconic (at least to us) rendition of the song, my sister and I walk as part of the “Hot Hot Hot” team. We would be honored if you could join us, but even if you can’t you can still help.
I ask that you help share my Safta Sarah’s story, my father’s story, my story. I ask that you lend us your friendship. I ask that you help us find a way to fight this disease and prove that humanity is capable of producing miracles by means of support, knowledge, and above all, love.
