I’ve always been a little woo-woo. Throughout my life, I’ve had this strange sense that the universe was guiding me in a particular direction.
Looking back, I can also pinpoint a handful of sliding door moments that drastically changed the course of my life. Last July, I experienced one of them.
I was holidaying on the Gold Coast, where my parents live, sitting in a park with my dad while my three kids played nearby. Out of nowhere, my dad began to tell me how much he loved me and what a wonderful daughter I’d been.
I’d already noticed subtle changes in my dad’s health during that trip, and somehow the conversation felt like a goodbye. For the first time, I was struck by the terrifying realization that my time with my parents was running out.
Something told me to move back home and be with my parents
When I flew back to country Victoria, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that I needed to go home and be with my parents. I’d been living away from them for 15 years, always saying I’d move back “one day.” But this felt different. It’s hard to explain, but deep down I felt like it was now or never. After some convincing, my husband agreed to try it.
Moving interstate as a family of five is no small undertaking. Over the next few months, we were under tremendous stress to make the move happen. My husband had to figure out what to do with his remedial massage and myotherapy clinics in Victoria, while I focused on finding the right school for our kids.
More than once, I questioned whether we were making the right decision, but the feeling never left me. It was like the universe was nudging me forward.
In January, we packed up our belongings and left them in storage at my husband’s parents’ place, then drove up the east coast of Australia in two cars. As we crossed the New South Wales border into Queensland and saw the sign saying, “Welcome to the Gold Coast,” tears streamed down my cheeks.
It had taken me a long time, but I was finally home.
Since then, we’ve been living with my parents, making memories together. There have been challenges, particularly for my husband, who has had to open a new remedial massage clinic and start from scratch. But in June, something happened that confirmed, beyond any doubt in my mind, that we’d made the right decision.
My dad’s Parkinson’s diagnosis confirmed it was the right decision
One Sunday morning, I took my dad to see a neurologist. We’d noticed a slight tremor in his right hand that came and went, and we wanted to get it checked out.
I waited outside while Dad went in. When he emerged, he smiled.
“It’s good news,” he said.
I assumed that meant he’d been given the all clear.
“I have Parkinson’s,” he clarified.
I stood there, dumfounded, then burst into tears, crying like a little girl, despite being 41.
“How is that good news, Dad?” I asked.
My dad is one of my favorite people in the world, and one of the things I admire most about him is his optimism. He’s a glass-half-full person in every sense.
“Well,” he said, “it’s the lesser of two evils. It’s better than Alzheimer’s.” That’s one disease Dad has always feared.
I’ve felt both grief and gratitude since that day
On the way home, we stopped at a café, and I bought him breakfast. As I looked across the table at this beautiful man who had always seemed invincible in my eyes, my heart broke. How could he have Parkinson’s?
But as the days passed and we began to process the diagnosis, another emotion slowly emerged alongside the grief. Gratitude.
I was so grateful to be home. Grateful to my husband for agreeing to uproot our lives in order to give me more time with my parents. Grateful to my kids for coming along for the ride. And grateful to my parents for welcoming us into their house.
Maybe it’s a coincidence that I felt that unmistakable pull to come home. Maybe it’s intuition. Either way, I know I’m exactly where I need to be at this point in my life. By my Dad’s side, ready to support him on the road ahead.
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