When I became the unofficial offensive line in Parkinson’s quiet game
A moment's hesitation from my uncle offered the chance for a new role
Written by |
It still feels like yesterday when Tony Romo was having a monster game. By early in the third quarter, the hometown Dallas Cowboys were up 27-3, and it looked like they were finally going to pull it off. Then it unraveled. Three interceptions later, they had lost 34-30. Another season slipping through our fingers.
Uncle Brandon lived for those kinds of Sundays. When he wasn’t at the drag strip or hanging out with friends, his favorite spot was the garage. He’d fire up the grill, grab a cold beer, and watch America’s Team on TV. He coached from his folding chair, loud and full of opinions, as if his words could change the game.
But on that particular Sunday, something was different.
Usually, a collapse like that would bring out all his game-day theatrics. He’d yell at the TV, toss playful insults at Romo, and claim he was done with the Cowboys for good. Of course, we all knew he’d be back the next week. But this time, I saw him hesitate.
His eyes darted across the screen as if he were trying to track a play he could not quite follow. His mouth opened, then stalled. The frustration on his face was not about the interception. It was about the words that would not come.
He noticed me watching, and I could tell he knew exactly what I was seeing. We had already tiptoed around other early signs. The way his hand shook when he held his fork. How hard he worked to steady his hands. Those small moments you try to brush off. But that afternoon felt like the first real turnover, the first big shift.
So I switched to defense. I joked about trading Romo for a bag of bricks. He laughed, the tension leaving his shoulders, and waved me off before heading back to the grill. In that moment, humor felt like the best way to keep things moving.
Stepping into the game
Looking back, that’s when I became his unofficial offensive line. I stepped in to fill awkward silences and prevent pauses from dragging on. I wasn’t trying to silence him, just to protect him.
As his Parkinson’s disease progressed, the game changed. The man who once filled every room with his commentary became quieter. In his garage, surrounded by family and friends, I watched him pause before joining conversations. Words that once came easily now got stuck between his thoughts and his mouth. The hardest part wasn’t the tremor. It was seeing the frustration in his eyes when the words wouldn’t come.
For someone who valued control, this felt personal. It was like playing a game where the rules kept changing in the middle of the season, and no one gave you the new playbook.
So I adjusted, too. I started carrying more of the conversation. I made more decisions. I laughed a little longer to keep things light. I acted like I didn’t notice when frustration tightened his jaw. I loved him deeply, and I quietly missed the version of him who used to lead every gathering.
Back then, I didn’t think of it as caregiving. It just felt like adapting to a new season and learning to see things differently.
Parkinson’s changes the rhythm of everything. It slows down what used to move fast. It makes you sit with moments you wish would pass quickly. I learned that communication is more than just speed or volume. It’s about being present. It’s about staying in the game, even when things feel unfamiliar.
If you’ve ever watched someone you love struggle to get a word across, if you have ever stepped in to keep the drive alive without making it obvious, you understand this shift. You know the quiet exhaustion of carrying on conversations. You know how lonely a room can feel, even when it’s full.
Parkinson’s might change the scoreboard. It can shift momentum and change what a winning season means. But what it does not do is erase the team. And what it cannot do is erase the bond built long before the rules began to change.
Note: Parkinson’s News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or another qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Parkinson’s News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to Parkinson’s disease.
Leave a comment
Fill in the required fields to post. Your email address will not be published.