The Kindness of Strangers

Seven years ago my father had a stroke. It has been a huge adjustment for him as he had to give up his beloved tennis, golf and driving. Driving was the biggest loss as it meant giving up his independence. However, the day was saved when my mother found a 'Shop Planner’ through the Echo. It’s a kind of a motorised scooter that goes as fast as a brisk walk or you can speed it up to a gentle jog if you are in a particular hurry. Dad uses it every morning to go to Douglas Court and back for his coffee and paper.

After a recent short spell in hospital, we weren't sure if he could manage the journey by himself so on his first Saturday home, I went with him. We set off fine. When your mobility is restricted you notice the little things like steps and whether the pavement is modified in the right places. They were but it was alarming to realise that the footpath on that stretch of the Douglas Road between AIB and the beginning of the Well Road is sloped. As he ploughed relentlessly towards Douglas, the scooter listed heavily towards the road. I panicked. I stayed on his outside forcing him to move into the inside. He scraped the wall a few times but, better a scratched bumper than calling an ambulance.

Crossing the roundabout outside Douglas Court is like entering No Man’s Land: there is danger from all sides. My Dad, like most people his age, assumes he has right of way. He ploughed across the road and before I had a chance to scream, the oncoming car stopped. For two seconds, everything came to a screeching halt. I hurried after him and the swirling chaos of traffic resumed.

The Farmers Market was being set up in the car park. Dad glided between the crates of plants waiting to be unloaded, skirted around flimsy tent poles and managed to avoid trailing ropes. However, when he turned his head to admire a stand of cupcakes he kept his thumb on the throttle. Two men standing in his flight path had to jump out of his way. They apologised. I apologised and, my Dad……was gone. Inside Douglas Court, I told him that I would get his paper and that I would meet him in O’Brien’s with the instruction that he was not to get out his scooter until I got there. At Porters, I queued behind a man buying €40 worth of Lotto tickets. By the time I got to Dad, he was being helped out of his scooter by two women and telling them where he wanted to go. I shot up to them. One of the women said, “The man who was on your father’s table has moved.” After some shifting of furniture, the waitress brought over his coffee, he settled down with his paper and all was well. I thanked the two women again. The second lady whispered, “Don't worry; my father had a stroke too. Their independence is very important to them.”

Heading home again, I suggested we stop at the garage to pump up the back tyres. Dad said, "Not today." As we drew level with the Esso garage on the Douglas Road, he said, “We'll cross here.” I pressed the traffic light but he had already swung the scooter around and was halfway off the pavement. A Fiesta stopped even though the light was green for her. We crossed quickly. I waved my thanks to the driver. Pumping the tyres only took seconds. Dad said he could feel the difference: he was two inches higher and seemed to sag a little less on the slopes.