It Started with the Tahini

He watches me on the stairs. He counts my pills. He follows me around the house.

Ever since last May, Frank has hovered over me. He holds onto me when we walk from the front door to the car. He carries my bag while I climb into the driver’s seat so I can go to the grocery store by myself.

“I’ll take you,” he says, every time.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Did you take your meds?”

“Yes, I told you.”

Sunday mornings, I enjoy going to Publix by myself. Shopping for fresh vegetables makes me feel like I have control over something. It’s not crowded because most people in our community go to church, or football on Sundays. I go by myself to get space. We’ve got three adult children living at home now, which is a joy for the most part.

I go over the grocery list one more time, checking the fridge and the pantry. My son Harry cruised through the kitchen. “Mom, we’re out of tahini.”

“Got it.” My handwriting has deteriorated in the last few years. Now I use all my powers of concentration and put it on the list using nice smooth not-too-small letters. Who knew I would be practicing penmanship at this age?

A good five years ago, I didn’t think much about the tremor in my right hand. I’ve always been a nervous person, even to the point of shaking. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. My primary doctor saw it during our telehealth appointment and said we would watch it for now. Most likely, it was an essential tremor. Very common and not that bad. Last May, he referred me to a neurologist, who said, “You have Parkinson’s Disease.”

I freak out for a few weeks. Frank and the kids go into high gear. Coco insists I hold the railing when I’m on the stairs. Frank makes the special electrolyte drink from a recipe I found on the internet. This will prevent dehydration, which could lead to dizziness, which could cause a fall. I now follow a vegan/vegetarian diet. So does Frank, just to keep me company, I’m sure, but he says he likes it. Harry makes me vegan meals, especially hummus. Hence the request for tahini.

Once Frank has me loaded into the car, he stands by and leans in toward me, preventing me from closing the door. “You sure you’re okay by yourself?”

“Yes. I’m fine! I know how to go shopping.”

“You have the list?”

I do have the list. I also have a photographic memory. Even if I forget the list, I remember everything that was on it. When Frank remembers the list, he loses it somewhere in the store, or in the parking lot. Or he thinks he loses it but finds out later it was in his pocket the whole time. Brilliant-but-absent-minded, he can’t hold on to his keys, his wallet, or his glasses. He has always been forgetful. I have not. Even now, I am not forgetful.

And I can drive myself to the grocery store.

Whenever I pull into the Publix lot I think of my mother. “That’s where the rich people go,” she’d say, frowning and shaking her head. Mom stuck with Walmart for their everyday prices. Not to mention their electric sit-down shopping carts. She loved getting special care. Not me.

I park the car, grab a cart, and flip up the green plastic thingy in the kind of seat I used to put my toddlers in. Today it’s not a seat for babies. It’s for produce. I take a moment to catch my breath. For years I’d assumed my dizziness and fatigue were due to 1) old age, and 2) never doing cardio. Now there’s a third reason. Parkinson’s.

“It’s the worst in the morning,” says the support group lady. “Make sure you drink at least 500 ml of water before you get out of bed.” That’s almost three cups.

“Wear compression socks.”

“Sleep with headboard raised six inches.”

“Stop eating meat and all processed foods.”

I do all of the above. It helps. Once inside the store, I push the cart over to the International Foods aisle and put one foot in front of the other, looking from side to side like I practice in physical therapy. I do not lose my balance as I inspect every shelf. Mexican. Korean. Japanese. Nowhere can I find tahini, the sesame paste from the Middle East. Where else could it be?

It must be with the peanut butter.

The peanut butter is at the other end of the enormous store. The tahini is not. I schlep back to International Foods and look again. No luck. But on the next aisle, a grey-haired man kneels on the floor. He’s restocking the shelves with five-pound bags of store-brand flour.

“Excuse me, Sir?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

I see now that he’s elderly, too old to be doing such a demanding job. It must be terrible to be so frail, I think. I wonder how old he is exactly.

Get real. He’s younger than you are.

“I’m looking for the tahini?”

“The wha–?”

“Tahini.”

“Tahiti?”

“No. Tahini. T-A-H-I-N-I.”

He leaps up off the floor in a single bound without using his hands. Wow. No matter how many asanas I do at yoga, I can’t do what he did.

Who’s elderly now?

He pulls out his device. “Let’s see here.” He types in “tahini.” “Oh, it’s right here! Just around the corner, in the Kosher section.”

That’s funny. Why would they lump Middle Eastern food in with the kosher? Still, the tahini is there, nestled in with the gefilte fish. I ask him, did he know where I might find the pita bread?

“You mean the round things? Oh, yes, it’s one aisle over.”

“Thanks!” I follow his directions halfway down and find myself in the Mexican section, where I can buy as many tortillas as I want, either corn or flour, in any size. They aren’t pita bread. Still, they’re round, I have to admit.

I set out on my own to find the pita bread, thinking this simple grocery trip is turning out to be more of an ordeal than I’d planned. I’m winded. Taking it slow and steady, I revisit the International Foods aisle. I go to the bread aisle, again, all the way on the other side of the store. No luck. We’ll have the hummus on crackers, I think. But there on a special rack of Pita Thins crackers, I find the Pita Bread. My heart races, and not in a good way.

Slow down. Practice your breathing.

I inhale for a count of four and exhale for a count of eight. One Two Three Four. Hold. One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight.

The dizziness passes. I push the cart up to check out. I look down at my shaky hands, which should be holding my little green wallet. But they’re not.

It’s gone.

I inspect the cart. Not there. I must have dropped the wallet on the floor with these unreliable hands. Now I’m panicking because my brain isn’t working right. I race over to International Foods. Not there. The Middle Eastern/kosher section. Not there.

Frank is right.

I shouldn’t be out here on my own. I can’t do the things I did before. I’m old, I never exercised enough, and I have Parkinson’s disease. On top of all that, I’m losing my marbles.

I go back to my friend, still stocking the store-brand flour. “I lost my wallet!” I say this with more panic than I intended. I hate to make a fuss.

He springs up off the floor. Again.

Show off.

“Let’s go everywhere you were,” he says. Maybe you dropped it by the Manischewitz.”

Not there. “Maybe it’s with the round things.”

It isn’t. I’ll have to call Frank and admit I messed up. He’ll have to come and get me. He’ll never let me out of his sight again. Oh, the humiliation.

But my new friend persists. “Maybe it’s in your cart.”

“I checked that already.”

“Check again. You must have put something down on top of it.”

I said I looked there already.

To humor him, I go through the cart again. And there it is. The little green wallet hides beneath the green parsley. The thing sits there, leaning against the green flip-up thingy. I hadn’t seen it before because the colors all matched.

“Oh!” I turned to my friend. “Thank you! I feel so dumb.”

He shrugs. “It could happen to anyone.”

That’s right. It could happen to anyone. That’s what I’ll tell Frank when I get home.

Don’t tell him.

He doesn’t need to know this right now. He’ll lecture me on accepting reality. That I can’t do everything I did before. Before you know it, he’ll insist on driving me to the grocery store. To the hairdresser. To yoga.

I pull in the driveway.

Don’t tell him.

Frank walks out to greet me. I open the car door. He offers his hand to help me out. I take it. His strong arm steadies me on my wobbly feet. I point myself toward the back hatch to get the groceries.

“No,” he says. “Let’s get you inside first.”

He walks me to the house, giving me extra support over the crack in the pavement. “Watch your step here.”

He holds tighter when we get to the gravel part of the landscaping. “Hold on so you don’t slip.”

We arrive at the two little steps to the front door. While he fumbles for his keys, I hold on to the porch post.

As we’ve gotten older, Frank and I look out for each other more. I tell him he has to stop work at five o’clock. I tell him he doesn’t have to do all the chores by himself. The kids can help. I tell him when he’s got a doctor’s appointment because even if it’s on our calendar, he’ll forget.

These days when Frank offers his arm, I take it. He steadies me. But I don’t want to depend on anybody. Nobody tells me what to do. I want to go to the grocery store by myself.

Don’t tell him.

“Frank?”

He helps me through the front door and stops to look at me. “Yes? What is it?”

“You are not going to believe what I did in the store today.”