text: “Dammit!” he dropped the hammer again. The fourth time on this little project of his. “Why the hell is my hand shaking?” “What do you mean, you’re hand’s shaking?” His wife called from the kitchen, only a room away in their one story fix-up. “My goddamned hand hasn’t stopped shaking for three days!” “That can’t be good. Maybe you should see a doctor.” “Dr. Wilson is going to be booked around this time of year!” “Well then we’ll take you to the hospital.” “I don’t need to go to no goddamned hospita- whoa!” He fell off the step ladder he was standing on.” “We’re going, and I’m driving.” She forced him into the car and drove him to the nearby hospital. She took him into the emergency room and sat him down. When they were called back, they explained to the doctor the strange shaking and him falling off the ladder, both of which were uncharacteristic of the then-45 year old who was not only sure-handed, but competent with tools and on ladders, having years of experience in construction. “We’re going to run some tests, you could have one of a few things, none of which bode well for you, Mr. Taylor.” ... They ran their tests, all the while, Mr. Taylor was insisting he was fine and called the entire testing process, “bullshit,” they tested on him for two days, compared his results with that of other patients with the disease he’d soon be diagnosed with, and then sent their data to his full time doctor, Dr. Wilson. He went in for his appointment and didn’t like what he heard. “Well, Mr. Taylor, it’s hard to say, but you’re exhibiting the initial symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease.” “I don’t care about Mr. Parkinson or his disease. He can keep it. What pill do I have to take to stop the damn shaking?” “I wish it was that simple, Grover, but we don’t really have a cure for Parkinson’s disease. We really don’t know that much about it. All we really know is how to diagnose it and how to extend the life of patients with it.” “What’re you saying? I’ve been with the rats in Vietnam. Hell, I’ve survived my mother-in-law’s cooking, some disease is going to get me?” “There are currently no known survivors of the disease,” “There’s also currently no known curators of the disease by the name of Grover Taylor,” “I’m going to recommend you to a specialist...” ... So they went to the specialist, they went up a chain if specialists, until they were enrolled in a first-of-its-kind study led by one of the nation's finest in the subject. There were 10 men in the study, all of which were much older than him, yet didn't have as extreme of cases as Grover. There were different "cures" that were disproved over the course of the study, but there also were treatments that stalled the disease's progress. Grover's case, however, was so rapidly adaptive and so aggressive that none of these stalling agents did well for long. In total, these obstacles may have added 4 years to his life, but it still got him, not before the study concluded, however. The study concluded in a presentation of his findings to an international committee of Neurologists. ... "As we can see in these brain scans taken 6 months apart over the past 7 years, the disease attacks through the muscles up to the nervous system. As to the origin, it is more likely than not genetic seeing as how each of the ten men studied came from similar ethnic backgrounds, but different environments. 7 of the 10 men were of English or Irish dissent, with the other three hailing from other backgrounds in Western Europe including Portugese and French. There were several factors that enhanced it; 9 of the ten men had served some form of military service, with the other serving as a Police officer. However, the extent and duration of their service varies. Further investigation into the matter would have to be pursued. There were various medicines that stalled its progress for a length of time. That length of time varied from patient to patient. Any questions?" There were no questions, just a handful of doctors scribbling notes down and the families of the patients watching horridly. the presentation concluded, and afterward Mrs. Taylor and her (adult) kids flagged down the doctor in charge of the study, Dr. Nussbauer "Doctor, how long does he have to live?" "Maybe 16, 18 months? But in all honesty, the quality of life would drop to such a point that it'd be crude to not pull the plug after 8." This was in January of 1994. With his first grandchild on the way, Grover was sure he only wanted to be alive for one last thing before they pulled the plug. ... "It's a girl, Mr. Taylor" "A girl?" His wife proclaimed with joy. They had waited for the gender of the baby, wanting a surprise, but each wanted a child the same gender as them. "Yes Mrs. Taylor, a girl." "What'll we name her, John?" "Sarah, like we discussed." He looked into her eyes, and knew it meant a last goodbye for his father, and he teared up. Three months later, they're in the car riding to Grover's hospital bed, just like John and his wife knew they'd do the moment Sarah was born. They were silent the whole car ride there, the occasional tear falling from John's eye. When they arrived, they knew it was for the last time. They walked slow to not wake the bundle that'd been keeping Mrs. Taylor up since she'd been home. Her hair was a mess, his shirt was tucked in only one place. They looked like they'd already been through hell. But their trip was just beginning. The elevator stopped at the 7th floor, the Terminal Ward, where all the incurables went. For the last time, they'd walk down the hall to Room 723, and open the unreasonably creaky door. They slowly walked in, being careful not to wake the baby. It was eventually useless because the next one in was Grover's wife, Mary. Grover's other two kids were the last to show up. "She's just waking up from her nap." A rare smile in the room, the rest look solemnly onto Grover. He's just waking up, trembling as usual. "Why so glum everyone?" He spoke in his slow, calculated manner everyone became accustomed to since the disease set in. "Do you want to see her?" John's wife Sheila asks. "Let me hold my granddaughter," Grover says quick and curtly. "Are you sure you can control yourself?" Mary says quietly "Let. Me. Hold. Her." "Let's surround the bed to be safe..." Sheila cautiously suggests. Everyone crowds Grover and for the first time in 9 years, he steadily extends his arms together. He holds her and gently sets her down on his chest and wraps his arms around her for support. Sarah looks at him and flashes the first of many toothless smiles anyone in the family will see from her. Sheila turns away, to full of tears of joy to continue watching. He cradles her in one arm and extends one finger from his other hand and begins to play with her. She grabs his finger with her entire fist and that's when Grover says, "I'm ready to go," He presses the call button on his remote and within 5 minutes, a nurse comes into his room "What'll it be?" "I'm ready to leave, miss." She consults her boss to know if he can do this, and after a while, she's ready to turn off his life support. They all say their last goodbyes. "Well, I'll be seeing you, Pop." John says, hands in his pockets. "Hopefully not too soon. Your mother deserves more than one grandkid," Everyone in the family chuckles. His other two kids, Sue and Debby say their goodbyes. The last to say farewell is Mary "For the first time since we've been married, I don't know what say," tears flowing down her face. With his shaky hands he grabs hers. "Well how about, 'I'll see you later?'" "You were always one with words..." She says it with a chuckle that doubles as her choking back her tears. "Well, I'll see you later too, honey. I'm off to eat a nice steak dinner." He drags his hand across his throat to signal, 'kill it,' and closes his eyes. the life support's rhythmic beep turns into one long hum. and everyone hangs their head in silence.