Carnett: I miss those walks with Dad

I remember walking with my father in his neighborhood, his hand grasping the crook of my arm.

We did this many times together. Doggedly, Dad struggled with tentative and shuffling steps.

Those were the final years of his life, and I hated what the walks signified. Dad was desperately ill. The exercise was necessary to keep him ambulatory.

Dad loved our walks together, just as he loved walks with my two siblings. But he never expressed this to us in so many words. Dad was circumspect, never a “gusher.”

I hated seeing Dad grow increasingly fragile and dependent. It was shocking. He’d always been strong.

When we were small, my brother, Billy, sister, Judi, and I would cling to him, our arms wrapped tightly about his neck and shoulders. He’d hoist us up and fling us about, and we’d laugh like crazy.

Or, we’d wrestle. Together, we couldn’t take him down.

We’d ask him to flex his muscles like Vic Tanny.

We kids would beg him to don his “Army jacket,” which hung in the closet next to the front door. It was a jacket with gold buttons, an Army Air Corps patch on one shoulder, polished brass on the collar and a staff sergeant’s chevrons. Usually he said no to our petitions, but occasionally he’d indulge us.

When he put on that jacket it conveyed to us loyalty and honor. Bill and I proudly wore similar jackets a decade later.

Dad and I talked as we took our walks. We’d, of course, walked together for years, long before the onset of his wasting illness. He loved the exercise and conversation.

We spoke animatedly as we walked. We discussed his kids, grandkids and great grandkids; books he’d read or Bible passages he’d examined; politics; society’s ills; and new cars. Later, as he became increasingly incapacitated, we’d talk less and less. His concentration went to placing one foot carefully in front of the other.

When dad was in his late 70s, we’d circumnavigate the block (sometimes twice), or we’d walk a section of the trail skirting Upper Newport Bay.

In his 80s, we’d walk his Eastside Costa Mesa street to its end and back. Later, it was just 100 yards down the street and back. Sometimes he’d surprise me with an earlier turn-around-spot than usual. But he never liked to give in to gathering shadows.

Finally, it was to the end of the driveway and no more. Then back to the porch, through the doorway and into his chair.

Eventually, our excursions came to an end. He couldn’t do it any longer, and, besides, I feared him taking a fall. I was nervous as a cat during those later walks.

One of his neighbors told me years afterward: “I used to watch you walk with your father. It was touching.”

I never felt like we were being watched. It wasn’t a performance; it was our time together.

Dad had Parkinson’s disease, and it finally took his life at 84.

Parkinson’s is a progressive neurological disorder with no known cure. It causes nerve cells to die or become impaired, and patients exhibit such symptoms as tremors or shaking, slowness of movement, rigidity or stiffness, loss of facial mobility and balance difficulties. Other signs include a shuffling gait, cognitive problems and muffled speech.

Some experts say one never dies of Parkinson’s but from some complicating factor like pneumonia. Let me be clear. My dad died of Parkinson’s. The disease assaulted and debilitated him, robbed him of his strength, and, finally, crushed his mind and body.

Plain and simple.

Dad’s been gone for a decade, and I’m now the one with Parkinson’s. Sadly, I don’t have him to walk with.

I can still stride unaided, but that will end. I’ll require assistance from my wife, a daughter, a granddaughter or a grandson. Though I don’t look forward to dependence, I do anticipate intimacy with persons I love.

I miss Dad.

Were we to hit the streets together at this very moment, we’d have much to talk about.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.