There's an episode of Fringe in which Walter Bishop gets lost in Chinatown. Remember, when we first met him, he was on a psych ward and had been for almost two decades. Now he's been out for a while, but people have to keep a close watch on him because, well, he's an old man with the sensibilities of a child. He yearns for more freedom, but he just can't have it. So in this episode he defiantly goes to Chinatown on his own, and sure enough, he gets lost. He's stranded without any hopes of contacting his son Peter or the rest of his Fringe Division team. He's a brilliant scientist who figured out how to go to a parallel universe, but when it comes to more mundane things? He doesn't have a good grip on things. He's practically helpless.
It reminded me of Gramps from a long time ago. Back then he worked at Dulles Cleaners in Elmhurst. The store he used to work at is no longer there. I think the flagship still is, but I'm too lazy to look it up now. Regardless, from my house to Dulles is a five minute drive, and that's allowing for a lot to go wrong. It's about a mile and would take me--in my prime--about 30-45 minutes to get there by foot.
Gramps needed a ride to work, and I told him I would give it to him when I got back from running errands. He expressed some concern that I would not be back in time, and I told him that would be no problem. I'm usually very punctual. When I'm hanging out with friends, I usually arrive to the minute I say I'm going to be there. When it's something else, like work or a signing or some kind of event, I'm almost always early (except for Printers Row, but that's a story for another day).
I ran my errands, but I did run a little later than I expected. I told Gramps I would be there at 4:50 pm, and he had to be at work by 5. I said this expecting to be done with everything by 4:30, but like I said, I ran a little late. I still made it back at 4:49. I honked the horn. Gramps didn't come out. The clock switched to 4:51, and I went inside to find out what's going on.
Gramps wasn't there. I searched around until I found Grandma in the basement with the laundry. She said that Gramps left a half an hour ago ON FOOT to go to work. That stubborn old man guessed I wouldn't be there on time. I asked her why she didn't stop him, but I needn't have.
Angry, I got back in my car and sped down the road, keeping an eye out. I found Gramps about three-quarters of the way, and he was looking rough. By that point in life he was already bowlegged, and he struggled to keep moving forward. It was more of a hobble than a walk. There was no way he would have made it.
I pulled over and unlocked the door, pushing it open and shouted to get his attention. When he saw it was me, he got in the car, and I drove him the rest of the way. I was so fucking angry with him that I let him have it with both barrels. Not a second went by without me yelling at him, not even when I pulled into the lot by the side of Dulles. I sat there for a little while longer, because I had another couple of minutes to rant at him. I forget how much time has passed, but he was probably in his early eighties at the time. How could he think that he could have walked all that distance when he had difficulty going up and down stairs? He could have been hurt. What if I didn't see him? What if he fell down and had to be brought to a hospital? What if . . . and so on. I can still feel the heat of my anger right now as I type this out.
And he sat there and took it without a single fucking word. Finally, when I ran out of steam and it was 4:58, he said, "I'm sorry, Dodge. I am. But I have to go into work now."
And so he went. I was his ride home that night, and I spent a lot of my time thinking about other angry things to say to him, but when I picked him up we didn't say anything.
And now here I am, a few weeks from turning 45, and I understand why he did it. No one ever wants to admit that their best days are behind them. Someone who used to walk miles and miles all the time doesn't want to get used to the fact that they can't do that anymore. No one wants to admit to themselves that age is getting the better of them. That they can't do the things they used to. That youth is gone and all that remains is the time you have left with your own ever-increasing decrepitude and how long that takes to wear you down to the pencil nub they'll put in the ground at the end of your life.
Because I feel that now, and I'm only half the age Gramps was when he went out for his walk. I, too, used to walk a lot. At least a mile a night. Just for the fun of it. I can't do that anymore because of my bad foot. My joints are going bad on me. Not too long ago I thought I had rheumatoid arthritis, but it turned out to be trigger finger instead. Still, it's pretty debilitating. I'm going under the knife for one of my hands soon, and I've been advised that it will be out of commission for a while so it can heal. My right hand. The one I write with. One of the hands I need to type with. I thought about just ignoring the doctor's warning, but then I thought of Gramps on his way to Dulles. Walter Bishop lost in Chinatown.
And I thought about the years ahead of me. What happens if my bad foot needs to be amputated? What if I lose the other one, too? What if my hands go so bad on me that I can't just charge forward, doing whatever I want to do anyway? Who is going to do these things for me?
I don't want to admit that one day, if I live long enough, I'm going to need someone to take care of me because this getting old thing doesn't show any signs of stopping. And I don't want to give up and sit in bed and wait for the end to come. I want to walk to fucking Dulles, for Christ's sake!
But I can't. The world has moved on and will always move on. I, too, have moved on.
O Discordia!
No comments:
Post a Comment