Parkinson’s Disease Symptoms I missed: My Father’s Story

My father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in April of 2023. He passed away in January of 2025.

That is twenty-one months from diagnosis to goodbye.

I share that not for sympathy but for context. Because when I look back now, I can see signs that were present long before we had language for what was happening. Parkinson’s disease symptoms, when looked at separately, are easy to explain away or dismiss altogether. And if this piece gives even one person the words to recognize those signs sooner, to ask harder questions, or to push for answers earlier, then my father’s story becomes something more than heartbreak.

It becomes help.

What I Thought Parkinson’s Looked Like

Like most people, my understanding of Parkinson’s came from what I had seen in mainstream media. The tremors. The shaking hands. The visible, unmistakable physical Parkinson’s disease symptoms that announce themselves clearly.

My father didn’t shake. Not at first. Not until the disease had significantly progressed.

What he experienced was quieter. Subtler. Easier to dismiss. And because it looked different than what I expected, it was easier to explain away.

Looking Back

Hindsight has a way of rearranging everything.

In 2017, my father became unusually reflective. Looking back, I wonder if some part of him sensed that something was quietly shifting, even if he couldn’t name it yet.

By 2019, the physical signs appeared. Daddy walked with a stiffness I now know was the beginning of his shuffle. Parkinson’s can affect movement in ways that don’t always begin with tremors. For some people, rigidity and a slow shuffling gait are among the earliest signs.

He would sometimes stare off mid-conversation. I would call his name, sometimes more than once, to bring him back. At the time, I assumed he was distracted or tired.

He became confused more easily. Small decisions that should have been simple seemed to require more effort.

He was deeply involved in his church community and held real responsibilities, most notably opening and closing the church after services and community events. Then he started misplacing important things. The church keys. Car keys. Money after committee meetings. Responsibilities he had managed with ease for years suddenly became harder to hold onto. I told myself it was normal forgetfulness. Normal aging.

And then there was his voice.

We talked on the phone often, and I started noticing a hoarseness. When I asked, he told me it was post-nasal drip from inflamed sinuses. It was a plausible explanation, and I accepted it. What I didn’t know then was that voice changes can be a Parkinson’s disease symptom. The voice may soften, weaken, or become hoarse over time. I was hearing the disease on the other end of the phone and didn’t know it yet.

I explained everything away. And I was not wrong to. I just didn’t have the full picture.

The Moment I Knew Something Was Seriously Wrong

In 2021, my father stopped driving on highways. I noticed he no longer complained about traffic or highway construction. I thought he was tired of dealing with the crazy drivers. And told myself it was caution, not decline.

That same year, I flew in for his birthday. Because of COVID, it had been at least 18 months since we last saw each other. The man I saw was not the man I remembered.

He had lost at least 100 pounds.

That kind of weight loss doesn’t happen quietly. It is the body signaling distress in the loudest way it knows how. That visit was when I knew, not suspected, knew, that something was deeply wrong. I just didn’t know what yet.

The diagnosis came the following year. When it finally arrived, I felt two things simultaneously: relief that we finally had a name for what we had been witnessing, and grief that the name had taken this long to find us.

The Parkinson’s Disease Symptoms That Don’t Make the Headlines

What I want anyone reading this to understand is that Parkinson’s is not one thing. It is many things, and they don’t always arrive together or in the order you expect.

My father’s journey included:

Freezing. He would stop mid-movement, unable to continue. His body would pause.

Dream disturbances and losing time. My father lived in a space where the boundary between dreaming and waking became unreliable. He told my uncle that sometimes it was genuinely difficult to tell what was real and what was a dream. He could be both asleep and awake at once in a way that is almost impossible to describe unless you have witnessed it firsthand.

He lost time in profound ways. To him, five minutes might have passed. To everyone else, it could have been two days. One of his home health aides called me to say he hadn’t eaten or moved since she was last there. At least sixteen hours had passed. When she arrived, he told her she had just left.

People as markers. My father did not do well alone. People were his anchors to reality. When someone was present, he could orient himself, eat, engage, and function. When he was alone, he drifted. He wouldn’t always know what day it was, or what year. He could become lost inside his own mind with no one there to call him back.

When he ate, it was because he was around other people. And when he did eat, he had a voracious appetite. His body knew it needed nourishment even when his mind had lost track of time.

Routine and purpose. My father had daily meetings for various church committees. Church was more than faith. It was structure, social connection, and purpose. He remained deeply committed to his daily walks at the park and visits to the community center until he could no longer drive himself there.

That structure was what held him together. When his routine broke down, so did his connection to the present. Without people, purpose, and familiar rhythms, he slipped further into that in-between place where dreams and reality blurred.

Hallucinations. Toward the end of his life, my father began seeing people and things that weren’t there. He believed a family lived in his basement, and he felt responsible for caring for them.

Rigidity and shuffling gait. Years before his diagnosis, his walk had changed. The stiffness I noticed in 2019 was his body already beginning to speak.

Voice changes. I thought the hoarseness on our calls came from post-nasal drip and inflamed sinuses. We both shrugged it off and blamed the weather, dust, anything but Parkinson’s. His voice grew softer and weaker over time. That too was the disease.

None of these felt like Parkinson’s to me at the time. They felt like aging. Stress. Normal decline. Individually, I could explain each symptom away. Together, they were telling a very different story.

I wish I had known how to connect them sooner.

He Was Holding On

I think my father sensed something was shifting as early as 2017, even if he couldn’t name it. By 2021, he had quietly stopped driving on highways. By April of 2024, I believe he knew he was slipping.

In June of 2024, I hid two sets of his car keys. I thought that would be the end of the conversation.

I didn’t know he had a third set.

In July of 2024, he brought that final set to me himself. He didn’t have to do that. He could have held onto them. But he chose the moment he would surrender a piece of his independence. On his own terms. With full awareness of what it meant.

That was not a man who didn’t understand what was happening. That was a man holding on until he decided it was time to let go.

He passed away six months later.

What I Would Tell You Now

Trust what you are seeing.

If something feels different about your parent, your spouse, or someone you love, trust that instinct. You know them. You know what their normal looks like. And when that normal begins to shift in ways that are difficult to explain, it is worth a conversation with their doctor.

Push for answers. If you are told it is just aging, ask more questions. Request referrals. Seek specialists. Be persistent even when the system makes persistence feel exhausting.

I cannot know what earlier intervention would have changed for my father. But I do wonder whether an earlier diagnosis could have helped preserve more of his healthier years. The medications and support that might have helped came too late in the progression of his disease to do what they might have done sooner. That uncertainty is something many caregivers carry quietly.

And it is why I believe earlier conversations matter.

The person reading this deserves the chance to ask questions sooner than we did.

For a complete list of early and late Parkinson’s disease symptoms, visit the American Parkinson’s Disease Association at apdaparkinson.org. If you recognize these symptoms in someone you love, please speak with their physician about a neurological evaluation.

I am not a medical professional. Everything in this piece comes from my lived experience as a daughter and caregiver. But I do believe this: your instincts are worth following.