When We Grow Weary

Watching Parkinson’s destroy my mother’s body was brutal. I wanted her to fight harder. It seemed she was giving up.

“I don’t like to exercise. Besides, it doesn’t really help,” Mom said.

“I’ll do it with you,” I said, determined not to give in to her arguments, even though I didn’t like exercising either. I picked up two elastic bands Mom’s therapist had left behind. I handed one to Mom. “Show me what you’re supposed to do.”

Mom gave in with a huff, scooted to the edge of her chair and put the band under her foot. “You kind of march in place with it,” she said.

“Try holding more resistance against the band. Do it slower like this,” I said, copying her movements.

She tried again. “If I do it the way you and the therapist insist on, I still don’t like it.”

“Neither do I. A slow five more! One, two, three…” The elastic band suddenly slipped off my foot and bounced up, hitting me in the face.

Mom started laughing. “Not that slow!”

We did every exercise on her list. Mom was spent and ready for a nap by the time we finished. I knew I would have sore muscles the next morning, but it was fun for both of us when we took on the task together.