Rest stop angels

At a rest stop off of I-95, I learned men don’t seem comfortable with a woman in the men’s restroom. I don’t know what I expected when I entered while helping my dad inside, but I figured we’d mostly be ignored. After all, there was nothing really to see. Just a short half-Filipina woman helping her tall, ailing, confused, Caucasian father inside.

The men - and they were such a variety of men, young and old, teens to retirees, of various backgrounds - all united by this natural need to use the bathroom. My dad included.

By this point in his life, though only in his 60s, he had trouble walking by himself. He wasn’t yet being pushed in a wheelchair, but he did need someone to guide and steady him as he walked. He walked like some stiff Frankenstein’s monster - arms outstretched, sometimes ahead, sometimes to the side, like he was trying to make doubly sure he wasn’t going to run into a wall or a tree or a car or a person.

He used to walk all the time and perfectly well when he was healthy. After many years of laying mostly dormant-seeming, Huntington’s Disease began to work its insidious and dark magic in his brain and body. By the time we were at this rest stop, he had lost multiple abilities: taking care of himself, reading, driving, remembering to not open the car door while the car was moving.

That last one was particularly frightening, as my dad opened the door while we were on I-95. As soon as we could pull off, I got out, admonished my dad and reminded him to not open the car door when we were moving, employed the child locks, and shut the door. My dad couldn’t remember what I said or truthfully, didn’t understand, and I could hear him grabbing at the handle trying to open the door (to no avail) when we were on the road again.

Back to the rest stop where I was helping my dad to the restroom. Watching my dad try to walk and navigate space was like watching footage of Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. Except Neil never suddenly tilted to the side or completely lost his balance like my dad. After a few paces, he’d lose his balance, so I’d catch, steady him, and we proceeded in this slow, cautious way until we reached the entrances to the restrooms.

I wondered if we should go to the women’s one, as women seem more okay with an unwell person, no matter the gender, in the bathroom space. This was my experience, at least, with my physically disabled brother. My dad, though, was a tall, proud man, a baby Boomer, even if he no longer knew or remembered himself. My dad deserved his dignity. I decided to steer us to the men’s restroom as that it what he would have chosen; we could just go into a stall. My plan was to assist my dad and mostly ignore everyone else.

So I led us into the men’s room.

“Oh no!” a man said to me looking stunned. Another man trying to move past him without realizing why there was blockage at the door eventually skirted past and looked appalled at me and my dad standing there. A few more men passed - to and from the bathroom - and the amount of “no”, “No!”, “what?!”, and shocked rubbernecking at me and my dad was more than I’d ever seen at a car accident.

“I’m just trying to help my dad,” I said to this weird little crowd, acknowledging internally that maybe I was the weird one trying to get into the men’s room. I couldn’t even peer around the men to see inside; their bodies effectively blocked my view. I didn’t know the men’s room space was something to be protected from a woman’s presence.

Immediately, an older black man, close to my dad’s age said, “I will help him.”

I was taken aback by the offer and said, “I appreciate that, but he doesn’t just need help with the walking, he needs help with...everything.” His eyes conveyed he understood that meant some undressing, handling, wiping.

I waited for the man to rescind his offer, but instead, he confirmed, “Yes,” and he walked toward my dad to offer his arm for him to hold. A younger black man came up to help steady my dad while the older one helped him walk into the bathroom; the remaining men had dispersed.

My dad and his two helpers emerged from the bathroom after awhile; I was so grateful and remain so grateful for their act of help and kindness. The men seemed to think of it as nothing much, just help anyone would offer their fellow man.

See, several men had walked past us or blocked us at the door, Caucasian men, and they didn’t even spare a glance for my dad. Yet, these two black men offered help without hesitation. I marveled that these men offered their help (while also observing that it seemed preferable to help my dad over allowing me to enter the men’s room). Helping him was a good deed that probably took no more than 5-10 minutes, but it has stayed with me for years now. Their help continues to stir hope in my heart for the goodness of people.