Most of Me Read Free

carrying grudges, giving each other the silent treatment, and blaming the other. They taught their children well. All three of us—me, my younger sister, and my baby brother. We spent much of our childhood embroiled in battles, tearing down trust, building up walls. It drove my parents crazy. Especially my mom. She had a short fuse, and her conflict-resolution techniques were often framed as questions. Sometimes she’d wait for an answer, like a TV game show host waiting for the contestant to make up her mind.
    â€œWill it be curtain number 1? Or would you rather have what’s behind curtain number 2?”
    â€œAre you going to stop that crying, or do you want me to give you something to really cry about?”
    â€œWill you apologize to your brother, or do I have to teach you a lesson that’ll make you really sorry?”
    â€œCan you and your sister stop that fighting, or should I bang your heads together and knock some sense into the both of you?”
    Choices, choices, choices. It never really mattered who decided what—we usually got what we didn’t want. And for me, the only thing worth getting was away. Far, far away.
    I made my escape in 1986, when I was twenty-two. I moved to Vancouver, to study at the University of British Columbia. One year shy of completing my undergraduate degree in psychology and fine arts, I left school and started my own successful art business, Robyn Levy Studio. I sold my original paintings, greeting cards, and T-shirts across Canada and the United States and even in Japan (where my company name was advertised as Lobyn Revy Studio). In 1991, I met Bergen; in 1994, our daughter, Naomi, was born. Six years later, I started working at CBC , in radio.
    â€œAnd why are you here to see me?” Theresa asks.
    â€œBecause I can’t stop crying. I’ve never been so depressed in my life.”
    â€œDo you have any idea what might be causing your depression?”
    â€œProbably lots of things,” I sob. “Wonky hormones from PMS and premenopause. Stress at work. Stress at home. Naomi is depressed. We’re fighting a lot. And she’s having trouble at school. You know, girl culture; girls can be so mean. She’s different, and it’s hard to fit in when you’re different. Then there’s our house. It’s unfinished. Bergen is slowly fixing it up in his spare time, but it’s taking forever. There are always power tools and messes everywhere. I hate it. But the worst thing is my dad was just diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.”
    â€œAre you close to your father?”
    â€œVery close. Always have been. I am so sad that he’s sick, and I’m so far away. I wish I lived closer so I could be there, to help him.”
    â€œHow is he coping?”
    â€œNot well. He’s incredibly depressed and anxious. Can’t sleep. Can’t work. Losing weight. Slowing down. He can barely talk on the phone. He’s having all sorts of adverse reactions to meds. It’s like my dad has disappeared.”
    Theresa nods, then says, “It sounds as if you are in mourning.”
    â€œBut my dad didn’t die. He’s still alive.”
    â€œOf course he is. But given your dad’s health, he may never be quite the same as the dad who raised you, the person you are used to. It’s possible you’re mourning the loss of your pre-Parkinson’s dad.”
    I let this idea sink in. Images of him from photos taken over the years flash through my mind: playing tennis, driving his vintage red convertible, hugging his three kids, napping on the brown couch, napping on the white couch, napping at the Blue Jays game.
    Then a memory I’d long forgotten surfaces.
    â€œI was in my early twenties, and my dad and I were walking on a path in a park. I had picked up an ordinary stick from the ground and was shifting it back and forth between my hands as we chatted. After a while, my dad wanted to see