The Road Back

by Darryl Bertolucci

Darkness. The  forest was closing in. I was scared.

The music of the Traveling Wilburys still played in my mind, a comforting soundtrack as I walked. Yet the deeper I went, the more the forest seemed to hide threats. The rustling leaves and distant sounds of night creatures. Wolves? Bears? Or just the local raccoons having a late-night feast? I couldn't tell, and frankly, I didn't want to find out. Parkinson's Disease (PD), as always, reminded me of its dark presence. I couldn't ignore it, but I sometimes could pretend it wasn't there, at least for a little while. 

The way-through was uneven, with roots and rocks making every step a test of balance. The dense foliage blocked out the moonlight. The fear of falling, of being unable to get back up, was ever-present. My anger at PD simmered just below the surface. The anger was a catalyst. A force propelling me through the fear. Brené Brown would have been proud.

I kicked at the stones that dared to block my way and snapped branches that obstructed the path. The forest seemed to stretch on indefinitely, the twists and turns lead me deeper into the unknown. Like PD.  Damn! Was I lost? My thoughts raced. The trees were watching me, ready to drag me back into the gloom. There was movement in the underbrush. A specter of something…or someone. Coming towards me.

My heart raced as I tried to run. I tried, but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed by PD  and fear. IT was unclear who or what this was, but its presence evoked even more fear…that my past was catching up with me. The darkness grew more oppressive with each clumsy step.

My legs were made of concrete. I stumbled. I fell to my knees. IT emerged, its silhouette casting an ominous presence against the night sky. I lay there, panting and exhausted, I realized that I had a choice—I could either try to run or confront IT.

I defiantly stood up, brushing dirt and leaves off my clothes. "I'm not running anymore," my words echoing through the forest. "I won't let you control me." IT hesitated.The fear that had driven me into a frenzy was now fading, replaced by a sense of calm and resolve. Silence…

I realized IT was none other than my brother Pat, who was holding Cluck—my favorite chicken. I was stunned. My legs still trembled. "Seriously, Pat? You scared the crap out of me. What the hell are you doing here…with Cluck? You stopped caring about me years ago.”

Pat laughed, the sound echoing through the trees. "I didn't mean to scare you, man. I just knew you were out here facing your demons. Parkinson’s a bitch.  Figured you'd need someone to talk to, even if it's just me and Cluck." He wiggled his eyebrows at the chicken, who seemed unbothered. Cluck.. clucked.. contentedly. 

The fear and anger that had driven me into a frenzy were now overshadowed by the ridiculousness of it all. I felt a surge of gratitude. The forest didn't seem as dark or as menacing with my brother and Cluck by my side. I straightened up and took a deep breath.

“Let's head back," I said, my voice steady. "I've got a lot to figure out, but at least I've got you two with me."

As the three of us made our way out of the forest, I felt rather than heard the Traveling Wilburys. 

“Been beat up and battered ‘round
Been sent up and I've been shot down
You're the best thing that I've ever found
Handle me with care…

I'm so tired of being lonely
I still have some love to give
Won't you show me that you really care
Everybody's got somebody to lean on
Put your body next to mine and dream on

I've been fobbed off and I've been fooled
I've been robbed and ridiculed …
I've been uptight and made a mess
But I'll clean it up myself, I guess
Oh, the sweet smell of success
Handle me with care”

~ Handle With Care, by the Traveling Wilburys, 1988