Getting Old
Last night, I was at a friend's place watching the
Canucks try to make it into the playoffs for the first time in 5 years. (They did: Van 3 LA 2 F/OT).
After the game, I headed out for my short walk home. As I got off the elevator I heard someone say something beside me, but it was muffled and quiet.
I turned around to see an old man wearing a dressing gown and looking quite confused, leaning on a nearby railing in the lobby. He had very thick glasses that made his eyes look enormous and his hair had fallen out in patches, rather then the more common male-pattern baldness.
He looked totally helpless. It seemed as though there was something very wrong.
"Is someone there?", he said quietly.
"Yes."
He angled his head up trying to figure out where I was, but the lobby was a bit dark. He said, "Can you help me?"
I was filled with a sense of dread. I thought perhaps he had wandered down to the lobby in a haze of dementia or his elderly wife had collapsed in their apartment.
He started to shuffle slowly down the hall and said "It's the heat...I can't find it."
I followed. The door to his apartment was open and he slowly made his way inside.
"I can't see so good, I can't find the heat." His voice was weak and quiet, like he was talking to himself over some problem he was trying to solve.
"So, you can't find the heat?" I said, trying to find a thermostat.
He was standing in his kitchen now.
"The heat...you know..." he said, gesturing in the direction of the stove, "the heat...I can't see it. I can't turn it off."
As I walked through the hallway, I saw hundreds of pictures crowding the walls. Many of them looked quite old. Almost all of them featured this old man in much younger days. At the end of the hall was a very large picture of him and a beautiful woman in a dancing pose. The picture was quite faded. Their clothes and hairstyles suggested it was taken in the sixties. They both looked elegant and genuinely happy.
I made my way to the kitchen, where his kettle was making little clicking sounds from the heat beneath it.
"Okay, I see now." I said, perhaps too loudly, "The element is on. I've turned it off, but it's still hot."
He muttered a shy thank you and I turned to go. On my way out I looked around at the images on the walls. In most of the pictures he was smiling a great smile, accompanied by many different people.
Before I left his apartment, I turned to see if he had followed me or if I should close the door. He was standing in the same spot where I had left him, as if he was waiting for someone to tell him what to do next.
"Alright, good night then." I said, again a little loud.
This seemed to rouse him. "Oh...oh, yes. Good night." He pulled a small grin and shuffled toward the door as I closed it for him.
It seemed a sad irony that this man who had so many photographs wasn't able to look at them anymore.
I hope his memories are good ones.
