As I slowed to a walk, I was a bit more out of breath than I had anticipated after a very short jog. There was no doubt about it, I needed to get in better shape if I was going to keep up with my dad and his walker.
Of course, this little jog was a bit unexpected, so perhaps my sudden fatigue was the result of my body not getting enough of a message that its services were needed. And it was late afternoon in late July in central Florida, so the sun was hot and it felt like I was sucking in hot soup instead of air with every breath.
My father was out and about again. There was a rocket launch scheduled for 6:24, so he crept out of his bedroom, out the front door, down the driveway, and around the corner before anyone noticed. When I found him after a few minutes of frantic searching, he was halfway down the next street, pushing his gray, four-wheeled walker. He moved quickly, if erratically, with a stumbling, waddling trot.
I chased after him. I stopped a few paces to his right, toward the center of the empty street, took a few deep breaths, and waved in his direction.
“Hey,” I said.
I never really knew how to start a conversation in these situations. It’s a pretty unique social scenario. What do you say when you’re following your dad who has Parkinson’s and shouldn’t be wandering the neighborhood alone?
“Where are you going?”
That seemed like a good option to me.
“Well, to watch the launch!” my father replied. His tone suggested that this was a downright ridiculous question. Where else would he go? Verbal communication has never been the basis of our father-son relationship, and it only got worse as his Parkinson’s worsened.
Once we figured out why we were taking this fun trip, we continued walking, my father leaning forward and pushing his walker at a pace that made me shiver. We weaved along the side of the road and waded through puddles in the gutters created by the thunderstorms that had passed over the road an hour earlier.
We soon reached the end of the street. The main road of the neighborhood left us with two options: left and right. It wasn’t immediately clear which direction would lead us to our desired destination. At least it wasn’t clear to me. My father raised his hand. He gestured vaguely to the right.
“It will be so,” he said.
And off we went. I didn’t see how we were going to get a better view of the launch if we walked somewhere, but who was I to argue? After all, he was the one who used to work for NASA.
I kept cringing as my father crossed the small grassy slope from the sidewalk to the street that we had to cross for some reason. I subtly steered him toward the sidewalk ramps that seemed a little safer, but he rejected my suggestions—maybe I was being too subtle.
Instead, he continued along the side—or sometimes more in the middle—of the main street. It’s not a thoroughfare by any means, but there’s usually enough traffic to make you nervous. Especially when your dad is lurching around on his walker, wading through puddles, and constantly threatening to crash into mailboxes or cars parked on the side of the road.
Finally, at the last street we could possibly turn home on, I convinced him, through a combination of magic and luck, to turn west. This was counterintuitive—the rocket launches east—but I reasoned that we had to turn home eventually so he wouldn’t run out of steam. My father, of course, seemed to disagree, but he reluctantly went the way I suggested. We accelerated until we were racing past the turn home and down the dead end street into the swamp.
“There’s nothing but a swamp down there,” I pleaded.
His gait became more erratic now and his breathing became more labored. I had to constantly spot him, ready to catch him.
“Uh huh,” he replied without any hesitation.
I made some hand gestures and kept suggesting we go home, but to no avail. We reached the end of the street, where three reflective diamond-shaped signs indicated the beginning of the swamp ahead.
My father sank to his knees, completely exhausted. I waited a few minutes before helping him onto his walker. Luckily, it was a walker that could also serve as a seat. After a few more minutes, we headed in the other direction. My father was in his walker, pushing himself along with his feet while I tried to push and steer away from the drains at the edges.
We made it through most of it—he only wandered off into the drain a few times, prompting me to throw my body in front of the walker to stop his momentum. As we reached the end of the street, my mom’s car appeared around the corner. My niece and mom pulled over to pick us up, and we made the short drive home.
A few minutes ago it seemed like a much greater distance.
Dad spent most of the rest of the evening recovering, but there was good news. We didn’t miss the launch. It was postponed until the next day. Six o’clock. And now we knew where to go to get a good view.
Unfortunately, I was unable to attend the launch the next day. When you have children and a family of your own, life can sometimes throw a spanner in the works. It was the last launch my father and I ever pursued. He died about five months later from complications of Parkinson’s disease.
Since he devoted most of his professional life to the space program, space shuttle and rocket launches were a big part of our shared history. Growing up in Titusville, Florida on the Space Coast, launches quickly became routine. I could always count on them being there — just like my dad.
And while his physical and mental abilities declined in his final years, his consistency, strength, and sheer will to live never wavered. I like to think that this outing, one of our last times together, was his final lesson to me. Even though it wasn’t one he had consciously planned.
No matter how big the obstacles in this life are, he told me, you just have to keep going. Because living every day is worth it. Being present is worth it. Finding that perfect vantage point to watch a rocket take off for maybe the five-hundredth time in your life is worth it.
On that hot, sticky day in July, I felt I had some work to do to keep up with my dad. I was right. And even though he’s gone, I have to keep doing that work. And most importantly, as the father of my three children. Because in many ways, I will always struggle to keep up with the man who taught me what it means to be a father.
Father, writer, and editor. Author of the novel Love’s a Disaster and the humorous essay collection Fatherhood: Dispatches From the Early Years. Probably sweeping off the trampoline right now.
