Page created by: Emily Giombi

My father was a simple man.
He didn't care for the flashy - in fact, I'm pretty sure the only fancy thing he owned was his set of Titleist golf clubs that he used as much as he could. He didn't care about what he wore, what he drove, or how others thought about him. He cared about three things: his wife, his daughters, and nature.
He knew every hiking trail in Wisconsin better than the maps did and could talk about them for hours. There was a certain solace he felt with nature - perhaps the silence of the Earth spoke to him in a way that humans couldn't. Maybe he just had an affinity for the color green. I will never know.
Nature hasn't been the same since March 21, 2015, the day my father died from Parkinson's Disease.
It wasn't a surprise. He was diagnosed in 2002 when I was two years old. The doctors said he probably had twenty good years left, but the cards didn't fall in quite the right way.
I remember growing up with the "cool dad". He would come and eat lunch with my friends and me in elementary school - something only the cool parents did. I used to pretend to be sick every so often just so I could get sent home to be with him. We could play board games and do puzzles together all day. Those are some of the best memories I have of us together. I choose to remember these times as who he truly was.
My dad started living in an assisted living home when I was 10, just 8 years after diagnosis. When this happened, my dad started to lose himself. He couldn't experience the things that made his life worth living, and when that happened, his decline was quick. He started to get weaker and show more traditional symptoms (hallucinations, hard time swallowing, inability to walk). I know my father didn't want me to see him that way, but I knew that I had to spend as much time with him as I could, and I'm glad I did.
From the assisted living home, my father was transferred to a nursing home, and a hospice center shortly thereafter. It was quick, almost too quick to process. Though I don't remember much about it, people tell me that the funeral was nice. It was lighthearted and a celebration, something he would've liked.
I know that even though he was a simple man, he was loved by many. He was a friend, a son, a brother, a husband, and my dad. Nothing can take away his 61 years here with us, and I treasure the time I did have with him. I try not to think about how things would be different if he hadn't been diagnosed with the disease that would lead to his death, but sometimes I can't help it. Nothing can bring him back, I know that. But if his story can impact someone's life enough to help battle this disease, I know that his suffering wouldn't be in vain.