Like Father, Like Son
Marion, Indiana. At approximately 7:20 a.m. in July of 2008, I brush my hair with a wooden, slightly hairy brush in my bedroom. After setting the thing aside on a shelf, I walk downstairs and set the dirty breakfast dishes aside in the kitchen sink, while my nine-year-old nephew, Jakari, who was spending a month's worth of summer vacation with his Uncle Sam (that's me) and family, is eating a bowl of Fruit Loops on the coffee table in the family room watching Cartoon Network. After I went back upstairs to straighten things in my bedroom, ten minutes struck already. Dad, sitting in his red 2005 Ford Blazer near the driveway, was all ready to go. "Let's go," I tell Jakari. "Okay," he says.
I leave my red brick two-story home, and climbed into the front seat beside Dad. The heater was blasting a small amount of heat, circulating around us. Even though the sun was starting to come out of the eastern horizon, the unseasonably cool air of nearly 50 degrees contributed to cranking up the heater. I talked with Dad sparingly. About two minutes later, Dad was beginning to lose patience. He had to get his spinal injection at the Ball Memorial Hospital in nearby Muncie. According to him, he needed to get to the hospital by 9:00 a.m. And days earlier, I volunteered to go with him to drive him back home because he wasn't allowed to drive after receiving the injection. Jakari, on the other hand, decided to tag along with us.
I went back into the house to see what was keeping Jakari. There he was in the kitchen dumping the bowl of leftover milk and several pieces of Fruit Loops into the kitchen sink. Then he rubbed some lotion on his ashy legs in a hallway. I headed back outside, and soon Jakari left too, with the door locked behind him. Once again, I sat beside my father, while Jakari climbed into the back seat of the Ford Blazer. Finally, all three seat belts were strapped on. We were on our way to Muncie.
Once Dad drove onto Interstate 69 at the rate of between 65 to 70 mph leaving Indiana State Road 18, I found that I-69 wasn't congested with traffic. But there was some traffic nevertheless, which moved steadily. Through the front-seat passenger window, I looked at tall gas station signs that were exposed in the cool, misty air, and some of those signs displayed ridiculously high gas prices in digital numbers, averaging $4.00 per gallon. They were just ridiculous, period. Those sky-high prices have been in the headlines all summer long.
In the meantime, Dad and I talked in the truck occasionally. About life. About how I was willing to help Dad in whatever way I can, especially after he retired five years earlier due to his back problems. We talked about something else, too. I forgot exactly what it was, but it had something to do with I-69 being dangerous sometimes. "So much has been happening out here," Dad would say. He told me that a lot of accidents have occurred on I-69 between the cities of Marion and Muncie. I secretly prayed that nothing like that will happen to the three of us. Dad looked back at the backseat, where Jakari, who had been really quiet, was sound asleep.
Finally, my dad exited I-69 and entered the road that is known as McGalliard Road, stretching into Muncie. I looked at some uninteresting, paint-peeling billboard signs displaying discounts at fast food restaurants, and noticed that the traffic was beginning to increase now that we were getting closer to the city limits. Now we were in Muncie, still traveling on McGalliard Road. Rows of fast food signs, gas stations, and other stores were on either side of this busy bypass. I still continued to spot gas station signs displaying prices of about $4.00 a gallon. I simply tried not to look at those high prices.
Dad turned right onto a four-lane street that takes drivers nearer to Ball Memorial Hospital. As Dad drove, I saw some small attractive, single-family houses on either side of the road. Dad explained that a few of these houses were on sale. They're pleasing to look at, but I have no intentions of living in Muncie.
Soon we were on he Ball Memorial Hospital parking lot, where Dad drove into a slightly-lighted building which houses rows of parking lots. After spending a couple of minutes looking for an empty spot, Dad pulled his truck into the space of his choice and stopped the engine. Me, Jakari, and Dad, who was carrying his brown wooden cane, all got out of the truck and headed toward an automatic sliding door entrance.
Upon entering, the "hospital smell" of what I thought was medicine streamed up to my nose. As the three of us walked through a long hallway, I noticed it was quite busy. Nurses and doctors stood by patients, talking to them, walking around, talking to secretaries, and so forth. I saw a television set in a non-secluded waiting room displaying "Hannah Montana" actress and singer Miley Cyrus talking on a morning talk show as I walked. I walked into an elevator that shot Dad, Jakari, and me about a couple floors up.
Leaving the elevator, we walked to a front desk on one side of the waiting room, while approximately six patients who appeared to be 45 to 65 years old were sitting on the opposite side of the room watching television or chatting. The secretary, handing Dad a clipboard along some medical history forms, told him to fill the papers. Again. Dad grumbled about completing them again, because he had been to the same hospital for the same reason. But he took the papers and the secretary placed a beeper on the desk. This small, black bleeper, or however I want to call it, is designated for the patients' occupants to hold as the patients are busy visiting their doctors. Once the doctor visitation is almost complete, the beeper obviously beeps, notifying occupants to pick up their friends and loved ones.
I took the beeper from the desk and Dad, Jakari, and I sat down in the adjacent waiting room. Dad started filling out the papers which included human body drawings that allow patients to color areas where they experience pain. I held the beeper with my two hands on my lap. Jakari just sat watching television or looking around the waiting room. Minutes flew by, and finally it was time for Dad to get his spinal injection, leaving me, my nephew alone with a few patients in the same waiting room. Neither of the two of us talked much; we were practically watching television. Nurses walked into the waiting room calling the patients' names one by one for a checkup, injection, or something I don't know about. It must have been about thirty minutes later when a nurse walked to Jakari and asked him if he wanted to color. He accepted the offer. Seconds later, the nurse handed him a box of crayons and an animal coloring book. Jakari took them and colored in a kids' section on a small table with small chairs.
About ten minutes later, the beeper beeped, which almost startled me because of its loud, buzzing sound. This meant Dad was finished getting his injection. I got up, beckoned Jakari to come with me, and as he left the kids' area, he left the coloring book and the box of crayons on a bigger table in the waiting room. We walked into a room where Dad got his injection. Here, it was filled with doctors and strange-looking machines. And Dad was sitting near one of them. A female doctor talked to him about directions regarding to taking his medication. Then she pulled up a wheelchair for Dad to sit in and be carried back to his truck. Slowly, using his cane to support his balance, he gets up, letting his breaths of weariness and pain come from his mouth, and sank into the wheelchair. I held the wheelchair handles firmly and slowly pushed him through the hallway and to the elevator, with Jakari lagging behind. I noticed a man held the door buttons for us. As the four of us were standing in the elevator, the doors closed, and the small room gently descended to the first floor. The doors opened, Dad and I thanked the man, and I continued to push Dad to the parking lot.
Right outside the entrance, Dad slowly got out of the wheelchair, and I pushed it near the sliding doors and let it sit there. Dad, holding his cane to the concrete ground, walked to his Ford Blazer and handed me his keys. I unlocked the door on the driver's side, and the three of us climbed into the truck. I didn't need to adjust the driver's seat; it was comfortable the way it was. After all three seat belts were snapped on securely, I turned on the engine, looked over my right shoulder, shifted the gear to reverse, and backed out of the parking space. Shifting the gear back into drive, I followed the signs leading to the exit of the parking lot building, and soon I was out in the sunshine. Dad gave me directions. "Turn right," he would tell me. I secretly thought that he didn't need to give me the directions. I knew how to get back on McGalliard Road and I-69. But anyway, I turned the signals on for left and right turns, and soon I drove on the street that intersects McGalliard Road.
Driving on McGalliard Road, I drove at approximately the posted speed limits ranging from 40 to 55 mph. Enetering the I-69 corridor, I switched the signal on to turn right, stopped the truck until I had the right of way, and slowly drove down the ramp. I occasionally peered over my left shoulder so I can get a clear view while entering I-69. Once all was safe, I joined several cars traveling at 65 to maybe 75 mph in the right lane (I-69's speed limit is 70 mph). That's when Dad started talking to me about how I didn't need to look over my shoulder. He stated that I should instead use the rearview mirrors for greater comfort. I wanted to persuade (not argue) with Dad that looking over my shoulders whenever I need to pull into a new lane is just as important as looking at the rearview mirrors, but I didn't say anything about it.
I drove on I-69 for about thirty minutes. I tried to look over my shoulders when I needed to get into a different lane to pass a tractor trailer truck, but most of the time, I did. Dad said that I could get into an accident if I hastily peek over my shoulders. Finally, when a time had come for me to pass a semi truck again, I signaled to turn left, crept into the left lane, drove faster until I clearly passed the truck, and signaled to turn right before returning to the right lane. I didn't glance over my shoulders. I just looked at the rear-view mirrors. Dad praised me about that. During the drive, I never looked back at the backseat, but I assumed my nephew had gone back to sleep again.
At last, I came to the State Road 18 corridor. As I drove onto a ramp while decreasing my speed, Dad asked me if I wanted something to eat from McDonald's. "No, it's all right," I said. After waiting on a stoplight to turn green, I turned left onto State Road 18, and soon drove past several business buildings, including the Dollar General Distribution building and through the gently-rolling hills scattered with maple trees, rural houses, and fields of corn. Nearly ten minutes later, I parked the truck on the street near my home. Jakari stiffly sat up in the backseat after his road nap. "Thanks, son," Dad said. Like father, like son.