No one ever told me that you could mourn someone who is still alive. I never thought I could possibly miss someone who was sitting across the room from me.

Having a loved one die over a span of years due to a gradual, debilitating disease is a little like watching an episode of The Twilight Zone. That’s definitely my mom sitting there . . . but she sure doesn’t act like my mom anymore. She doesn’t look much like my mom. Often, she doesn’t sound like my mom, either. Whose cruel joke is this, anyway?

Twelve years ago, my mother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. I’ll never forget the day she found out. She had been having some pain, numbness, and decreased mobility in her left arm. We went from thinking it was just a muscle strain to the reality of Parkinson’s disease. That’s quite an emotional leap.

You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you have the realization that your life is about to change forever? I had that.

The first step is denial. Yes, I believed that she had the disease. But, in my heart, I knew that her case would be different. It wouldn’t kill her. It wouldn’t progress. She would beat it. So, okay, we can handle this. At least we know what’s wrong. At least there’s a pill for that. At least its progression is gradual. At least . . .

I cried because of Parkinson’s for the first time in 1992. I am still crying. Parkinson’s is a gradual decline, but every step is a loss. Every step brings with it grieving. I miss my mom. This was hit home to me as I looked at an old family photo album. Who was that healthy, active woman in that picture? Oh yeah. That is what Mom used to look like. I had forgotten. I had forgotten. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how far this disease had already brought us.

Over the years, Mom has lost most of her short-term memory and has struggled with increasing confusion. Early in the progress of the disease, we were getting ready for church, and she called me to come help her. I found her trying to put her pantyhose on. She couldn’t remember how.

Now as any woman will tell you, it takes a little skill to balance on one foot while wiggling into the first leg and to repeat the procedure on the other side. However, for most women who have put on pantyhose hundreds of time, that action is “muscle memory.” It’s like forgetting how to breathe. What must that feel like?

So, what do you do when you find out you have a disease whose symptoms are not yet obvious, but which will eventually be hard to hide? When my mom got home from work that first day after the diagnosis, I remember asking her if she had told her co-workers. She said something to the effect that it didn’t really come up.