The stickiness of grief: Parkinson's doesn't define me.

It's not all fucked because, deep down, I still give a damn.

I'm sorry for the language but I am tired.

Tired of pretending my life is rainbows. I am hurt.

I'm proud of the job we did raising dad. But it was a hell of a lot of work. And my battery for self-improvement is drained from caring for another.

My whole life may be a game of untangling these sticky narratives I have written. Or I may change my tone much quicker. Perhaps right now. We can all, at the very least, chose how we identify. And I identify as a fine young man.

My dad had Parkinson's for 22 years and all we have to show for it is our memories. Our smiles. The games and stories and jokes we learned along the way. Joyful. That's a lot to be thankful for.

Pops died September 15 of 2025. John Christopher Jones the lovely angel. Time is flying at lightning speed. I want to give my life a big hug and put it on pause. Swim in the lake with him once more. Or Stacy Brook.

I'm a funny guy but I'm in a lot of pain. Some physical, most mental. I did fall down a sidewalk grate just 23 days ago. It's like I'm learning to walk again, literally. So I need to remember to give myself grace, as shit happens and I can't always be super Hayden. I want to save everybody, and it precludes me from giving myself an inch. I love you if you're reading this :) thanks for being there for me.

My humor has always been a strong armor. It's one of the gifts I am most proud of. I love making people laugh, and that is a talent I got from my dad. He just had the most perfect timing. My mom is also a wise-crack, and she used to do stand up comedy as a young writer in NYC. Both of my parents are so cool. So why am I feeling like I am somehow cursed.

I want this blog to serve as a reminder to myself and to you. We are loved. We can create. Life can be a love letter to yourself. Life can surprise you as you find light in the darkest tunnel. I spent many nights as I kid looking up at the ceiling, thinking why me. Everything is a lesson, but it's hard to see the point when you are fighting to tread water.

We have 50 years worth of scripts, art, photos, furniture, games, piled together in the middle of all the rooms in the apartment he started renting in '78.

The painters are coming in to color wash some rooms. Pale tones in the next. And my sister wants to learn how to lime wash for the bathroom. We all have this frenetic, unbridled energy lately. Catherine just walked as a puppet or float holder in the Halloween parade. She's been cat-sitting at a fancy apartment for months. Mom is playing pickleball for hours almost every day.

And daddy would be proud. Grief isn't just feeling down, it's feeling all the things. And the more time I spend on this earth without my physical daddy, the more I can see the principles that he carried in the people around me. I see him in the stars, in the trees, in crabs at the aquarium.

My dad had a fierce dedication to his projects, a care to details of his craft, a light that is missed. He believed in timing and the power of a well told story. I want my story on this earth to be one that inspires. And so I'll consider this my second article.

And for all the love I have for him, I won't continue to let his plight define my story. I'm gonna let this one go for now.

Love you mom, char, cat, all my members of this fine newsletter.