Chapter 4 - Building a New Life in Cascais
Adjusting to life in Cascais was less of an upheaval and more of a quiet reclamation. Within two weeks, I had established a routine that felt entirely my own, unburdened by expectations, judgment, or the suffocating pity my family had showered upon me.
My neurologist in Lisbon, Dr. Silva—a warm, articulate physician who spoke fluent English acquired during his fellowship in Boston—did not look at my trembling hands as a legal argument for institutionalization.
"Your Parkinson's is in its early stages, Dona Myrtle," he told me during our second consultation, leaning back in his leather chair with a reassuring smile. "It is a physical condition to be managed, not a life sentence to be locked away. We will adjust your medication, incorporate targeted physical therapy, and ensure you continue doing the things you love."
He recommended a local art and ceramic studio down by the harbor, as well as a gentle weekly hydrotherapy class at a wellness center overlooking the bay.
I took his advice. On a crisp Tuesday morning, I walked down the cobblestone path toward Oficina de Arte, a sunlit studio run by an energetic, silver-haired sculptor named Beatriz. When I walked in, my hands shook as I reached for a lump of damp clay. Beatriz didn’t rush me, nor did she offer to take it from my grasp with a patronizing sigh.
"Take your time," Beatriz said gently, her dark eyes twinkling with warmth. "The clay does not care if your hands dance. In fact, some of the most interesting textures come from unexpected movements."
Working with the clay became a form of meditation. The initial frustration melted away, replaced by a quiet satisfaction as formless earth took shape under my palms. I wasn’t Myrtle the burden, Myrtle the medical case, or Myrtle the punchline of a cruel holiday joke. I was simply Myrtle—an artist, an explorer, a woman reclaiming her narrative.
I also enrolled in a beginner’s Portuguese class held at the community center twice a week. There, I met an eclectic group of expatriates and locals: Julian, a retired botanist from England who spent his days cataloging rare flora along the cliffs; Marie-Claire, a former opera singer from Lyon who had traded the stage for the tranquility of the Portuguese coast; and Mateo, a warm-hearted local baker who insisted on sending me home with warm pastéis de nata every Thursday afternoon.
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For the first time in years, my social circle consisted of people who valued my company, listened to my stories, and laughed with me, never at me.
Meanwhile, back in the United States, my absence was echoing through David’s household like a collapsing dam.
