It was a steamy 92 degrees the day my dad made a run for it.
The 82-year-old hobbled his way down 14 stairs, clinging desperately to the iron railing. He wobbled through the entry of his condominium complex and out onto the suburban sidewalk.
Moving at the speed of a box turtle, he worked his way to the corner, then left toward busy Cicero Avenue, where he planned to hail a cab even though taxis hadn’t searched that six-lane byway for fares in decades.
It had been more than a year since he’d dozed at the wheel and crashed his Ford into a corner light pole in a nearby town. The cops confiscated his driver’s license and made clear his driving days were over.
The judge agreed. So did we.
But the codger refused to be a prisoner in his own home, let alone of his own physical limitations. This was a guy who once worked two jobs, a guy who knew every street and alley in Chicago, a guy who could fix anything with duct tape.
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Time was, he was the person people called when they needed a ride, a power tool or a set of jumper cables. But decades had passed, his health had waned and many of his longtime friends had passed away or, worse, gotten old like him.
All the father of six had were his kids, who had jobs and families. Some of lived hours away.
As he inched his way over uneven sidewalks and other potential fall hazards, he no doubt cursed those kids, particularly this daughter who’d arranged for him to move into an assisted living facility on the coming Sunday.
He didn’t need assistance. So what if he could barely walk? So what if he’d forgotten how to work a stove and a microwave? So what if the meds she sorted weekly went largely untouched?
So what? Whose life was it anyway?
Meanwhile, 40 minutes away, that daughter worked feverishly, filling out paperwork, navigating phone systems, trying desperately to reach “the right person” on which everything that ever needed to get done in this world depended.
She faxed forms and talked to lawyers, doctors, bankers and Realtors. In fact, so desperate was she for affirmation that she talked to anyone who would listen to an exhausted, scared woman determined to fix a potentially dangerous situation.
With assistance from a younger brother, who lived hours away, she blindly navigated the bureaucracy that has come to consume geriatric life. It was no small feat given her father’s records were hardly in order and he was not a willing participant.
There were arguments, insults and tears. So many tears.
At one point she developed a playlist titled “Leaving Dad’s.” On those particularly brutal afternoons, she’d get in her car, roll down the window and blast Joan Jett or Aerosmith or Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Run Through the Jungle.”
So many days, she considered abandoning ship. Why must she play the lead in this American tragedy?
So many nights she laid in bed pondering the ethics of it all. Was it right to project your solution to your definition of a problem onto someone else? What about his rights? Was it kinder to put him in a safer situation even if that meant dragging him through hell first or was it more compassionate to let him live out his days his way — food-deprived, medication-ignored chaos that would likely end with him tumbling down those 14 stairs?
As horrible as that seemed, who was she to tell someone else their comfort zone was wrong? All year long, everyone in the world seemed to be screaming about their rights and he was no exception.
But the doctors, even the physical therapist who paid twice weekly house calls, advised moving him out of the walkup.
“Physical safety first,” the PT said.
The siblings agreed. His neighbors agreed. Everyone who saw him try to walk agreed.
So she persisted, all the time preferring someone else persist and much of the time fantasizing about moving to Florida or Arizona or anywhere that would put her out of this equation.
The situation wasn’t always animus. There were tender moments when he’d thank her for bringing a favorite meal or taking him to the doctor and fielding all the questions. There were funny moments when they’d laugh at the way she’d curse the wheelchair that never seemed to go where she wanted it to.
During the initial COVID lockdown, she’d taken him to the Bridgeview courthouse to get a copy of his birth certificate for a new ID. There, a Cook County sheriff’s deputy offered assistance and for a while the officer, the former reporter and the retired truck driver all chatted about COVID, their respective careers and life. For a man who’d rarely talked to strangers over the past decade, it was a stimulating afternoon.
There was the day at Huck Finn Restaurant in Oak Lawn when people cleared a path for the struggling patron and told him, “Go ahead of me and take your time, buddy.”
And there were poignant moments when he’d confess that, yes, life had gotten harder since her mother had passed and, yes, sometimes he’d stumble and fall and, yes, it might be nice to live in a place where there was a dining hall and a staff to check on him.
But the desire for independence runs deep and before long the boxer would catch his breath and brace for another round.
The daughter felt every blow, even if they didn’t knock her down.
By summer’s end, a new place was secured and the move was organized.
Two days before, he made his break.
He headed straight for a familiar place. Where else could a hobbling runaway who could barely work an outdated flip phone go?
Someone there recognized him and called her.
She righted the ship and the mission was carried out.
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But the transition was anything but easy. He complained about this or that. But at the end of the day, he was safe and cared for. Was he happy? Was anyone these days?
Months passed and the relationship continued to ebb and flow. Some visits were pleasant, others left emotional scars.
On Christmas Day, she stopped by with gifts and snacks and a homemade breakfast.
He was smiling and talkative and seemed genuinely happy to see her. During the visit, her siblings called to wish him good cheer.
It had been a year of researching, convincing, packing, shredding, moving and unpacking.
It had been a year of arguing, tears, self-doubt and role reversals.
It had been a year, the hardest year of her life and possibly of his too.
But on this very special morning, as the sun peeked through the clouds, a wave of calm seemed to wash over both of them.
Father and daughter: Resolute? Stoic? Exhausted?
Or could it be that peace had finally come to this tiny corner of Earth?
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.