Cursed With Good Health

"...life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone." 
          - 80's Rock Star John Cougar Mellencamp had it right, although he wasn't referring to old age.

Artist/Musician/Producer Brian Eno once said something like the following: Art gives us the ability to continually re-experience our innocence. He may have paraphrased or echoed this from an earlier source. It relates to the “Peter Pan Principle”, in that staying young involves being able to contribute creatively to one's culture and environment. When we can no longer do this, we begin to die inside, and to live empty lives.

“Over,” said the driver to his dispatcher, with whom he had just checked in upon arriving at the address on his manifest. He exited the vehicle, making his way up the driveway. Diane stood at the door, her health aid just outside it, waiting for her, and studied the driver they'd sent to pick her up. "Young man, could you drop me off at the cemetery on the way back?" Diane spoke with a tone mostly of sad solemnity, and there was only a trace of humor in her trembling voice. The driver, a middle-aged man with a three-day growth of beard and salt and pepper hair, had kind eyes, and a bit confused, replied sympathetically, "I'm afraid I won't be your driver on the return trip, Ma'am." Diane thought it was just as well. The drivers were paid to go from point A to point B, no deviations.

"Life is not like that at all," she thought, "there are plenty of deviations." She was a very old woman, about to reach her 87th year in a couple of months. She was rather short, and the wrinkled, pale complexion of her face featured a dozen or so scattered hairs, some growing from moles. Her head of hair was not long, just shoulder length, and hung like a slightly used, stringy mop. She wore green casual slacks and a short sleeved dark blue top, both of which loosely hugged her shriveled body. A simple wooden cane helped her keep her balance, but the driver held out an arm as she approached. Taking it, she smiled and remarked, "It's been quite a number of years since a gentleman offered me his arm." The driver smiled, too, as they made their way to the passenger van temporarily parked in front of her driveway, signals blinking.

There was potentiality in the scene that couldn't go unnoticed: the van ready for its passenger, ready for a ride, a daily prosaic adventure, yet the highlight of her day. The driver was yet another chance, an opportunity to mingle, to tell someone her story, for someone to sympathize, to comply, perhaps. What would today bring?

The driver helped her on board the van, and buckled her in to the bench seat at the back. There were two smaller seats along the passenger side of the interior, but a large space separated the bench seat and the driver's seat, which was there to accommodate a wheelchair, if needed. Diane didn't like the distance between her seat and the driver. She'd only just met him, and wanted to be closer. "I'm old and done with life," she said as he settled into his seat, "I really just want to die already. People say I'm crazy to say that." The driver was not uncaring, but seemed unable to think of anything to say, except to utter a plaintive "aww" and look at her in the rear-view mirror.

Diane sat and watched out the window as the van bounced along on her not-unfamiliar journey to the adult daycare that was her weekday reality. It was far away from her home, in a much worse neighborhood than hers. She dreaded the stay there daily, but tried to enjoy the trip there and back. It was difficult to enjoy, though, as her memories plagued her. They turned over and over in her mind, and she had no control over them - there were not enough distractions in her life to prevent them from pressing on her consciousness, from weighing her down with over 80 years of force.

"My husband died in the mid-70's," she said, breaking a silence otherwise filled only with the sounds of road under wheels, and of squeaky seats bouncing with each uneven surface. The driver made eye contact in the rear-view mirror again, so she knew he was listening. "I've been waiting for my turn ever since." The driver frowned a look of worry, as if he was taking what she said to heart, and not enjoying it one bit. The road continued. He was taking a way that no other driver had taken. She liked this driver all the more for it.

The driver said very little. What could he say? He did feel, however, that he needed to console this lady in some way other than paying attention and grunting acknowledgment. He searched his mind for something to say that might inspire, or at least entertain, Ms. Kruse, but he could think of nothing that would not offend. He didn't want to change the subject too obviously, nor did he want to encourage or excuse her glumness. Ultimately, he resignedly sat back in his seat, concentrated on his job, and said nothing.

Part of the trip was through some nice wooded areas, past a golf course, and over some small, concrete creek bridges. Diane looked out, enjoying the scenery, glad that the driver went this way instead of staying on busy freeways or the main roads of the suburbs. She lived in a suburb of a major metropolitan area, as did, in fact, the driver.

Diane sank back into memory as the drive continued. Her husband had been in the military when first they met at a USO in 1950. She had just turned twenty-five and went by the name of Lucy then, her middle name. She was unmarried, but had been with a few boyfriends between high school and college. After about four dates with John, he proposed to Diane. They had twenty-four wonderful years, sometimes experiencing idyllic weeks and months together, other times struggling with money, or with raising their children, with staying connected as a couple, but then John left her world in 1974, the result of a complication from pneumonia after an operation.

Her thoughts turned quickly, as if she had no control over them, to the oppressive environment of the daycare facility. Trapped between her recollections and the sick feeling of reality, she began to sob quietly, and as she returned to the present, to the van on the way to that awful place of soul-sucking boredom and intolerable social cruelty, the heaving cries came stronger and deeper. She tried to look away at something else, to get her mind somewhere else, to go back to the past, but the moment was broken. Her crying subsided as she gained control of herself, and she spoke to the driver once again. "I wish you could just take me to the cemetery, where he is, and just leave me. I'd lay down next to him and it would all be over soon." The driver pursed his lips, and did not openly acknowledge that he heard Diane, but she knew he did. She'd said this so many times, to so many others.

As they arrived at the single story building where Diane spent her weekdays, she perked up a bit. She would need a positive attitude to survive another day with dignity. The ladies that ran the adult daycare facility were so catty, digging in their claws of condescension, leaving their marks on the defenseless older people who were trusted with their care.

Diane exited the van, with the driver's polite assistance, and took his gentlemanly arm once again. He would see her to the door. Their ride had been emotionally not unlike a date, for Diane - quiet thrills, scenery, being picked up and dropped off, and then, of course, the uncertainty, the doubts. Her doubts were not about him, not at all, and still, there they were.

"Goodbye," Diane said simply to the driver as she passed from his charge to that of one of the caregivers. He reflected on what goodbye meant in this case. He didn't take for granted that it may be a final goodbye, that he might never see Diane again. He felt that he had gotten to know her pretty well in the mere 20 minute ride, and what was amazing was that they hadn't had what could be considered by many to have been much of a conversation. That seeming familiarity was a fleeting feeling he had, one that would evaporate with time. After a while it would be done, just as she, too, was done.

She was done with the relentlessness of consciousness.
...was done with the lack of compassion.
...done with the loneliness of nights.
...with the emotions of days.
...the frustration of living.
...volumes of torture.
...of pain.
Over.

All rights reserved. Copyright 2013, 2020 Todd Franklin Osborn