Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Taking the Scenic Route

I spend an ample amount of time with my grandparents. The visitation hours I've accumulate are in excess in contrast to my peers. The reason being that whenever I’m at home for an extended stay, I make a concerted effort to visit them as the occasion affords. Life for my grandparents is markedly bereaved apart from the accommodations of their capacious white house. Unfortunately my grandparents no longer inhabit the big white house they worked all their lives for. They now reside within the confines of a retirement habitation. What a disconsolate thought. But it’s why I visit.

My grandparents’ infirmities produce rather incommodious images. My grandpa—the disgruntled half of the pair—stays in the assisted-living wing of the retirement community. The collateral damage of three strokes leaves him paralyzed. His brain is perfectly operative. His body is perfectly inert. This incongruity generates tremendous frustration and is oftentimes most perceptible. It more or less depends on the day. He continues to persevere nonetheless. And my grandma—the more objectively evaluative and timorous—elects to live quasi-independently in the same retirement community, but outside of assisted-living’s ministration. She suffers from arthritis and rehabs daily from a broken hip. Their current predicaments—senile dispositions most aging demographics fear—tenably explicate my intermittent tarriances. Although both of my grandparents live with senectitude’s plight (grandpa especially) I won’t disavow from my commitment to visit regularly. Fortuitously over time, habituation eases the distress. Life at old age often remains the same, but when it changes, it’s rarely for the better. Acclimatization helps. Take it from me.

I love both of my grandparents, but in light of my grandpa’s ebbed corporeal condition I tend to visit him more these days. Truthfully speaking, time spent with grandpa isn’t always peachy keen. Ingratiating? Far from. Grouchiness sometimes seems to be the rule rather than the exception. Largely in part to his physical debilitation my grandpa has become a man of few words. It takes a lot to put a smile on his face these days. I persist regardless of what the fruit of my labor bears. Admittedly I’d prefer that the fruits be ambrosial and at worst marginally palatable—figuratively speaking. I’d do almost anything to see that grandpa enjoys my visit. Anything less treads the path of chagrin and self-reproach. What a delicate balance.

Just about ever member on my dad’s of the family side concurs that any time spent with grandpa is best served outside the assisted-living wing. So yesterday my brother and I agreed to take my grandpa out for lunch at Gray Brothers Cafeteria. I don’t really mind given the empathetic circumstances. A man who in his past life traveled the world and ran his own trucking business doesn’t value quotidian small talk. And we’re all cognizant of the repugnant food hospitals and assisted-living kitchens provide. The food is atrocious. Thus we dine elsewhere. The theory isn’t quite scientific, but it vivificates his temperament. As a therapeutic remedy food is so underrated. "The proof of the pudding is in eating."

I don’t remember the last time grandpa smiled. I sat agape as grandpa palavered throughout the drive. He smiled a lot too. He beamed to denote the birds soaring above us. He simpered to adulate the beautiful weather. He glowed to recount his old truck terminal located downtown. He cachinnated to instruct my brother to drive nineteen miles down the same street. He smiled and he talked frequently and concomitantly. Both smiling and talking stand as momentous feats indeed. The nostalgic swoon semblant by his countenance muted his blusterous proclivities. Lost and twenty miles out of the way he refused to purge the ear-to-ear smile spread across his timeworn visage.

We eventually arrived at Gray Brothers Cafeteria. My brother, and I rotated seats to feed grandpa. I suppose the dilatory commute invigorated his voracious appetite. And time surely elapsed with great haste. We left in no time. Attribute grandpa’s celeritous mastication for the precipitous exit. For a man stripped of any somatic faculties, he certainly compensates at the dinner table. Fittingly I made the arrangements for the ride home.

It’s when I ride the passenger side do I best mull over life’s minutiae. The ride down became the single cynosure of thought. For ninety minutes grandpa was at peace. I started to think about life as a series of races. Win or lose we trudge on to the next race with a pledge to lose never, place higher, and race faster. And when we do win, we seldom relish the moment. The next race is set to begin shortly after. Then I thought about today. I thought about my grandpa and the long trip to Gray Brothers. The interstate route—featureless and congested—saves time, but the experience lacks comeliness. The scenic route fraught with pulchritude and reverie apprizes the journey. The destination—a delayed gratification—becomes the forgotten reward. As luck would have it, life isn’t a race. Those who pledge to loser never, place higher, and race faster don’t always go on to live happily ever after. In fact, they rarely do. Life is much more enjoyable driven at the pace of a victory lap. But to those of us who aren’t racecar drivers, it’s best we take the scenic route.

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