The day my husband visited a neurologist and walked through the door with news of a Parkinson’s diagnosis was monumental. The news about our trees was still fresh, and the idea of writing about these eventual losses as something intertwined came to me suddenly. However, I ruminated on the idea for several years, unsure of how Kjel might feel about my conflating his condition with that of our beloved trees.

After several discussions and some encouragement from my husband, I started writing. Beginning with researching Verticillium Wilt, I was astonished at the parallels between how Verticillium Disease presents in trees and the ways in which Parkinson’s Disease ravages the body and brain. Taking the time to learn more about what was happening to our trees was the catalyst for digging more deeply into Parkinson’s mysterious manifestations. There was—and continues to be—something about knowledge that helped me face the reality of Kjel’s diagnosis and our future.

Writing about something so deeply individual felt risky; I had never attempted such a piece. While writing about Kjel’s condition, I found myself necessarily taking a rhetorical step back. Becoming more of an observer helped me attend to the details, while offering up a slightly altered perspective, opened only through the writing. What I learned through taking this writing risk was how much could be gained. I encourage those writers who have been reluctant to address such personal topics to venture toward these subjects rather than turn away. Courage and love win.

The hardest part of this essay was the conclusion. How could I end it on a note of hope without sounding trite, contrived? Conclusions are often challenging for me, and I am deeply indebted to my writing friend Susan Swetnam for her advice with this essay, particularly its closing.