Day #38 Writing Through COVID-19: My Father, Speed Demon

Yesterday's high entertainment was my father's lawn adventure on his electric wheelchair, which we call the scooter. With the spring weather at hand, he asked if I could help him get the machine out the door and down the small step to the back yard. 

I rigged a sheet of plywood, supported by coir doormats, then guided the chair's front wheels onto the ramp. My dad has always had a lead foot, or in this case, a lead joystick. He took off with a start, nearly catapulting himself out of his seat as the scooter bumped over the doorjamb. I let out a shriek; my dad held on. 

With the door ajar, farm dog Rex bounded in, heading for Vern's dog food. In the 30 seconds it took me to chase Rex back out, my dad had ventured into the rocked area under the deck, where he'd sunk his 200-pound chair up to its axels in river rock. His tires were spinning but his chair wasn't moving. I batted his hand away from the joystick, fearing he'd burn out his motor or start his wheels on fire.

I was able to tug him backward and get man and machine back onto firmer ground, where he promptly zipped off toward the terrace. 

My phone rang. It was Dan, whose advice I'd solicited in designing my ramp, calling to suggest we park the scooter in the garage rather than rely on the plywood-doormat makeshift ramp for multiple scooter entries and exits.

This was mostly a good idea, except that after parking his scooter, my dad would need to walk from the garage to the basement entry, circumventing two retaining walls and their railing-less stairs. I explained to my dad that he'd need to take the long way around the walls to avoid the treacherous stairway.


My dad says a lot with his eyes, and when he looked at me I knew he did not plan to take the long route.

"Have you walked down these stairs before?" I accused, knowing the answer.

"Just once!" He piped, like it was a little joke.
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I am fortunate that, for the most part, I can treat my parents as the adults they are. But I understand their trajectory will eventually necessitate caregivers to make more and more choices for them. 

I don't want to have to tell my father how to get from the garage to the basement. But he is unstable. If he stumbles on the lawn, he'll have a softer landing than if he nosedives on the stone steps. 

I want my daredevil speed-demon risk-taking father to mellow willingly to safer choices. But that also means losing a part of him.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison