He had not told me.
He was trying to understand what the diagnosis meant before frightening me.
Then Emily died.
Carl was suddenly carrying two catastrophes at once.
His daughter was dead.
And he knew that, over time, his own body would begin failing him.
In the days after the funeral, he made a decision.
He knew Parkinson’s was degenerative.
He knew that eventually he would need increasing levels of care.
He knew the exact timeline was uncertain, but the direction was not.
And he looked at me.
A mother who had just lost one child.
A woman struggling to stand upright.
A mother still responsible for a grieving five-year-old.
He decided he could not make me carry him too.
So instead of telling me the truth, Carl left.
He knew I would hate him.
He knew I would interpret his leaving as abandonment.
Apparently, he believed that was better.
