THE SONIC BOOMER
When I was younger, I looked forward to retirement because I thought I’d have more time. Ha. Ha. Ha. What I have is less time, and I’m not saying that because the Grim Reaper is chasing me down the street. I’m saying that because it’s true.
Once you reach my age, even as you’re being chased, you have to slow down once in a while to help others — people who raised you, people who have temporarily fallen, people who have reached out for help. It definitely impacts your time.
I just got back from Los Angeles, where my sister Pam had her hip replaced. Comparatively, she’s six years younger than I am but, also comparatively, her job as a flight attendant had her swinging people’s heavy bags into overhead bins for 38 years. (Management doesn’t allow them to do that anymore due to the high cost of torque-injury surgeries for an entire fleet of flight attendants. The new ideology is, “You packed it; you hoist it.”)
At any rate, Pam flew me out there because she was not yet allowed to drive and was getting bored. She wanted to go shopping. My job was to get her car in and out of the garage, load and unload her wheelchair and drive through ridiculous L.A. traffic like I was playing “Frogger.” Once we arrived at a store, I was to fetch any item out of her reach, carry large items that didn’t fit onto her lap and navigate the narrow check-out lanes. It wasn’t a hard job. It got even easier when we started seeking out stores that furnished motorized wheelchairs. (FYI: once you need one, you prefer the word “scooter.”)
For me, it was more of a vacation. We’d spend half the day shopping and half the day side-by-side in her bed, playing Scrabble and watching crime shows, her favorite. In the evenings, one of her many friends would have us over for dinner. We ate like princesses — three course meals with wine and dessert.
“It’s our way of ‘paying it forward,’” Pam explained. “We all know we’re going to need help sooner or later.”
By the time I was Ubered back to the airport, I had grown accustomed to the lifestyle. My first day back, I slept for 12 hours, then played Scrabble online. I watched “The First 48” and was ready for a nap. Shaking it off, I decided to go get groceries but caught myself heading straight for the store’s scooters.
“It’s contagious,” my sister had warned me, and she was right. Even as I resumed my daily activities, I found myself wondering what was on TV and longing for fabulous dinners with homemade desserts, served to me on china.
I’m better this week. Things like phone calls and mail have snapped me back to reality. My car had a flat. The clerk at my store had a $750 overring. Work had piled up to an alarming degree. My head is spinning again.
“Remind me of that myth of old people sitting on their porches in rocking chairs,” a formerly retired co-worker lamented. “Remind me of ‘vacation.’”
“It’s in Los Angeles,” I replied. “But let me make you dinner.”
