“Here,” my mom says, offering him a white paper cup from the bedside table. “The nurse said you could take this anti-nausea tablet.”

“I don’t want all these pills,” my dad says, and struggles to get up in bed.

“Mr. Myles.” The doctor looks back and forth between me and my parents. “You have a quickly progressing state of Parkinson’s disease, especially rare for your age. Treating with a high dose of L-dopa could greatly increase your quality of life. You’ve already started seeing the benefits.”

My dad looks out the window and says nothing. The rain is saying plenty.

“I had a motorcycle accident years ago,” he finally says, turning to look the doctor straight in the eye. “Concussion, brain damage, stitches, everything. The doctor I saw then said there might be repercussions later in life, and here we are.”

“I understand that,” Dr. Bhatti says gently. “But your chart shows that you already received a diagnosis a couple of years ago. It never hurts to get a second opinion, but my opinion is also that you have Parkinson’s.”

“No one knows anything,” my dad says angrily. “You people can’t help me. There isn’t even a clear set of symptoms, let alone a cure.” He shakes his head. “Don’t get my hopes up that you can help me with your medicine. I won’t buy it.”

Suddenly I understand. Denial is much more than a fear of facing the truth. It’s a fear of facing hope, of allowing light into a dark place, only to find out later that the flashlight’s out of batteries, the fire’s gone out, the sun is dead. Now the hole you made just lets the rain in. And you’re standing in a dark room that’s filling with water.

I climb over the bedrail and squeeze myself into the space between it and my dad. He puts his arm around me, but his voice is still angry. “When I was young and on a big adventure, I had a motorcycle accident and I got hurt and I’m paying for it now. I took a risk and now I have to live with the consequences, but I wouldn’t take it back. None of it.”

The doctor grimaces and tucks her iPad under her arm. “I don’t know what else to say,” she says. She turns to my mom and hands her a packet of papers and a few bottles. “You have my suggested treatment plan.”

“So I give these to him three times a day?” my mom asks, one hand on her hip, one hand holding the pill bottles. “And those for the nausea and that for the panic?” She keeps talking about my dad like he’s not even there. “What if he has an episode again? Should he be taking anything for the agitation?”

“No, try this for a few months,” the doctor urges, nearly turning her back to the bed. It’s like my dad has been dismissed to his own universe now, the Universe for People Who Can’t. It’s a million degrees, but I snuggle closer to the warmth of his body.