ampersand

They call them 'runners'. The immigrant children who can't sit still. At the school cross-walk there is a sign that says:

No Omar!
Stop Omar!
Omar go Squish!

The sign is for Omar. He has a habit of running away. His English isn't very good, but he seems to understand the sign. He's what they call a 'runner'. At lunch time two of the other children have to sit with him to make sure he doesn't run off. They have a red card system. If Omar runs, one child holds up their red card. The other goes to tell the teacher on duty. The runners get distracted easily. They have to have constant supervision. If there isn't someone talking to them or keeping them occupied, they'll get distracted.

Then they run.

And despite the fire danger, the teachers have taken to locking the doors. It's against regulation, but the teachers aren't that fast moving. If they run, the teachers won't be able to catch them. What happens if there is a fire? Well, they'll unlock the door.

Some time ago while on a bus, I was sitting behind three primary school teachers on the way to a function. They were talking about the children in their classes, and in particular the 'runners'. Obviously something about the conversation stuck with me, cause today I find myself thinking about Omar and his sign.

What made me think of Omar?

John sits anxiously by the door. The little movement he's making has a sense of urgency to it. He looks out the window, then to the lock, and then back to the window. He's either waiting for someone or planning his escape. I watch him while we wait for the nurse to come and let us out. When she arrives, she scolds him and wheels his chair away from the door. He stares towards the door longingly. But he's not supposed to be there. Around his mouth is the dried remains of what-ever his last meal was. He's trying to say something to the nurse, but he's not able to form the words. The nurse wheels him back towards the TV and opens the door to let us out. The door is locked by a combination lock, the combination for which is written clearly on the wall by the door. I resist the temptation to go back and point this out to John. Besides, I don't think he'd be able to understand me anyway.

John is a would-be runner. He'd run if he could. If he still had the ability.


Today I went to visit my Granddad at the care unit. He broke his hip about a month ago and had it pinned, but the doctors couldn't do any more for him as his blood pressure is too low to operate. So he was moved from the public hospital to a private hospital, and now he's been moved here, to a full care home. He has his own room but it's almost completely empty. There's a bed, a chair, and a table of little consequence since he already needs help getting out of the chair into the bed. The light is dim and even with good eyesight it's a struggle to see. A radio sits in the corner of the room playing really bad country music. On entering, I'm reminded of that South Park episode where Stan's Grandpa is trying to convince Stan to kill him. Only here they've replaced Enya with Country music. Somehow I don't think my Granddad would get the reference.

Granddad has been in and out of hospitals and care units for some time now. He's been mostly blind and deaf for ages and now he's not able to move around on his own. My Nan isn't strong enough to be able to help him move about like he needs. On top of that, she's now also broken her leg and is in a separate hospital. Of course she says she's fine in that very British 'mustn't grumble' way. We visited her before coming to see Granddad.

The saddest part of today was seeing Granddad alone in his room. He's almost impossible to have a conversation with because of his hearing, and he's not very pleasant to the nurses, so I imagine they leave him be for the most part. And Nan can't visit him at all until she's mobile. We're not even completely sure he understands she's in the hospital. So it's just him in his room, alone with his thoughts. My uncle brought in a picture from their house. A sketch of their first home back in the UK. Of course he can't see it, but he knows it's there, and when Mum points it out he's able to raise a smile.

On our way out Mum has a quick chat with one of the nurses while another makes the bed for him. Granddad turns to the nurse making the bed and says, "My grandson is probably looking at things for his films. It's what he does." The nurse gives a non-comital response as she continues making the bed. Neither of them are really looking for a conversation, and I guess she's just so used to hearing the old folk ramble about their grandkids she's just become numb to it.

I don't think he knows I've heard him say this. It makes me smile. On the way home in the car I imagine myself breaking into his room, wheeling him outside and onto a plane. Taking him back to the UK. Back to his home. The home in the picture. By the water. Just as I remember from when I was a kid.

And we sit and we stare out over the water and we don't need to speak at all and even if he could hear me and I didn't have to yell we wouldn't have to say anything we'd just sit. And stare. And enjoy the quiet.


So I don't mean to be all down and depressing. And the change of profile pic is only partially related to this journal. To be completely honest I just don't sick of staring at that goofy grin. There will be smiles to come. I just need a break for a bit.