A Companion Named Zeke
Andy Malinski
There’s a shuffle to his walk, the whisp of a brush against the snare—jazzy. Slow. Cool. Vince Guaraldi playing for the Peanuts.
There is a curve to his back that has come with age. Papa’s shrunk, after all, down a couple of inches from his original six feet. Back surgeries will do that, I am told. Age will do that, I have seen. Parkinson’s will do that, I have learned. He is still tall, strong, and full of willpower and determination. He has opted to walk without the rollator today and is using only his cane.
There’s a quietness to his voice. The laugh he once busted out over episodes of Whose Line Is It Anyway? that could easily be heard two towns away has been softened by the effects of the disease that is overtaking him. But there’s still a glimmer in his eye—a twinkle. A playful, boyish, naughty child just aching to cause mischief. I see it as he interacts with my son, Koda, as we walk into the airport to check him in for his flight. He has lived with us for the past week and is now heading back to Seattle to resume living with my sister, Jenn, and her husband, Josh. Since Mama passed away in 2020, he’s split his time between living with them in Washington and us in Colorado.
The airport parking garage is cold and damp. The smell of jet fuel, car exhaust, and that unmistakable but undefinable “airport smell” wafts through the air. “I love that smell. I have always loved that smell. I don’t know; it makes me feel like I’m going somewhere or people are coming from somewhere. It’s just so…I don’t know. I just love that smell,” my daughter Cora remarks in a very fourteen-year-old manner, rambling yet somehow articulate. There’s so much right now that she tries to make sense of (and then we try to make sense of her making sense of it). Papa can’t smell any of it. Parkinson’s robbed him of his sense of smell. Jet fuel and car exhaust? Nothing. The smell of rain? Gone. The ability to inhale the beautiful scent of lilacs, his favorite flower? No more—yet he still keeps a candle of the scent at his bedside.
“Do we get to ride the escalator?” Koda is aching to get inside. To him, riding the escalator is as exciting as a day at an amusement park. I raised him well—it’s about the little things in life.
“I need a bathroom,” says my wife, Crys. She, as usual, downed an entire 32-ounce bottle of water on the drive here. She’s a great mom; answers to ailments usually come with two questions: have you pooped, and how much water have you drunk (actually, the water question usually comes first). She’ll even use these questions to help Papa navigate his Parkinson’s symptoms. What would I do without her? Answer: probably be dehydrated and constipated.
Koda walks by Papa’s side, and I walk behind them, dragging the suitcase. Koda laughs, and I wonder what it’s about. What story, what anecdote, what advice has been doled out? I look at Papa, and there’s that impish twinkle, even behind the sleepiness in his eyes.
Last night—not 12 hours earlier—I was at the hospital with him because of pains in his stomach—gall bladder issues this time. I’d walked him into the ER and back out in the middle of the night only to earn a few short hours of sleep before bringing him here to catch this flight. I’d walked with him. We walked together. Now he walks with my son.
How times have changed.
Watching them, I’m struck by all the times he and I walked together on neighborhood roads, along mountain tops, even in airports like this. There’s a sudden flood of memories, emotions, and realizations that blast through me as I watch him walk slowly and carefully with my son, as he once walked with me. I think of what he told me, what he taught me, and how he touched my soul. I think of how I now guide him to and from airports, ERs, and back to bed after midnight Parkinson’s falls in the bathroom that startle me awake. I’m suddenly struck by how his words of wisdom and wonder have become my words of solace to comfort his grieving.
I catch a smile crossing his face as he reacts to something Koda says. He’s listening. He’s paying attention.
I paid attention. I promise. I heard every word.
New Hampshire, 1989. There’s a clumsy, overweight, bully-weary kid walking the perimeter of the field on the outskirts of the playground. All alone, he listens to a cassette tape of Enya, singing “Sail away, sail away, sail away!” because the drums are very, very cool, the harmonies are unlike anything on the radio. No one else in fourth grade is listening to anything like this.
No one except me.
See that boy over there playing soccer? We were best friends last year in third grade. Best friends. We played every day at recess, and I often went to his house after school (his mom made the best buttered popcorn). Now, a year later, at a different school, he calls me names and refuses to have anything to do with me. He calls me “fatso,” points and laughs, and gets his teammates to do the same.
See the boy chasing the girls on the Big Toy equipment? He rides the bus. He and his buddies beat me up and threw my bike into the woods a while back. I had to walk home carrying pieces—pieces—of my bike. He scares me.
A lot of them scare me. So, I walk alone. Men were scary and unpredictable. To walk with one was a risk.
Not all were scary. Not all.
I don’t remember ever—ever—taking walks with my family except on one very special occasion: Christmas Eve. Nowadays, I walk with my wife and my kids (our dog often comes along, too). I do not recall ever putting on shoes and traversing the neighborhood on a Saturday afternoon, or finding a park and walking a trail. If we were walking, it was with a purpose: we were going somewhere!
But with Papa, we did have some walks. Some of these memories go as far back to when I was a young boy, wondering who I was and searching for a path forward and out of the terror in which I lived, a terror created by bullies and a world that seemed out to get me. A world I was learning—and dreadfully failing—to navigate.
At the time, many of them were just walks. Exercise. If something was shared, passed along, meant to be learned, it went over my head: in one ear and out the other. But with a little reflection, a bit of retracing my steps, I can see that along the pathways, hidden in the humor and stuck in the silence, each little journey I took with this remarkable man led me into a world full of wonder and opportunity. He taught me to try. He taught me to explore. He taught me to give. He taught me to believe.
These were more—so much more—than simple walks. They were all parts of a journey. Lessons. Wisdom. Insights. Ideas. Hopes. Love.
When Papa was in high school, he was in a horrible car accident one night on a washboard dirt road. The injuries he suffered—a broken leg and back—cemented a great deal of what he would contend with moving forward in life. He faced a lot of pain. He endured multiple surgeries and recoveries in the years to come.
When I was in middle school, Papa underwent one of these surgeries on his back and spent weeks at home in recovery. Knowing he was home, alone, probably feeling as lonely and isolated as I was during the day, I started bringing change with me to school. During lunch, I made my way to the payphone by the office and called home just to check in. How was he feeling? How was the day going? What game shows had he watched that morning? (He always enjoyed a bit of Family Feud). What did he have for breakfast? How were the cats?
He was someone to talk to. And there was never any judgment or dismay detected over the line about why a middle school-aged kid was spending his time calling his old man instead of hanging out with his friends. There was warmth and gratitude for the calls. Thankfulness. Happiness. Connection—for us both.
When I'd get home from school, it was time for him and me to get out and take a walk, per his steps to recovery. It was imperative, however, that these walks be done with someone at his side. As his muscles adjusted to the effects of the surgery, it was not uncommon for his legs to give out. At home, on the soft carpet, a tumble wasn't too serious and didn't require much thought or concern. A fall outdoors on the concrete, however, could lead to further injury. It was best to have someone close at hand, just in case. With my sister doing afterschool activities, I became his walking partner, his literal "right-hand man."
Shoes on and easy-does-it, we'd make our way out into the neighborhood for a short walk. Anything that came to mind between the two of us became a subject to discuss. It was a comfortable, open, safe space.
All of a sudden, muscles would seize, nerves would fire strangely, and his frame would collapse. My dad would quickly find himself at the mercy of gravity and kiss the pavement if I wasn't quick enough to catch his fall. And he would fall, quickly, without warning, a victim of his own body.
"You okay? You okay, Dad? Papa? You okay?" I'd ask frantically.
"Yeah. Yup. Okay. Just scraped a bit. I'm fine."
The timing was less than ideal. There, two houses down, on bikes in a driveway, were the three neighborhood bullies. They saw it all. Grown men don't fall. Babies fall. Children fall. Weak, sad, pathetic nobodies fall.
Papa was not a sad, pathetic, weak nobody. Not now. Not ever. Never.
I offered him my hand and lifted him from the ground. He said nothing, yet it was as if through our touch, he relayed to me a message: be yourself.
This moment wasn't about the boys down the road or whatever they were thinking or saying or snickering about. I didn't have to care about them. I didn't have to hurt. I didn't have to hear or see or feel their menace. At that moment, it was about the man who needed me.
I lifted him, but my eyes were not on him. I stared—glared—at the boys down the street. Helping my dad up, I showed them, with the utmost pride and resolve in my eyes, that this was my moment. They tore me down, day after day. They had ripped my pride and my dignity to shreds on multiple occasions. But I was stronger than they would ever be. I was prouder. I had care and love and something they did not possess—someone to believe in.
Papa got to his feet. He thanked me for my hand as if some sort of gratitude was somehow necessary. I managed a soft "Yeah" as he dusted himself off. His knee was skinned and dripping blood. I put my arm around his waist and led him towards home. As we walked past, I heard them laughing their cruel, terrible laughs. I swallowed hard and struggled to take a deep breath. I squeezed Papa with my arm.
"It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Today’s a busy day at the airport. It’s spring break in many places, so students are dragging luggage, skis, and winter gear to the airport to reach their destinations. Papa flew down to hear me play with the community band. The moment he heard I was playing the William Tell Overture, he had me book his flight. He sat in the audience with my wife and kids and directed along with our conductor, waving his arms without inhibition. He was the first to yell out a grand “YES!” when we played our final note.
Then he sat through the kids’ honor choir concert and wept as they sang a song about social justice.
His balance had been off all week. He’d been tired. There’d been a lot of pain. That week had been one of the bad ones; it started beautifully with the band concert but slowly deteriorated from there—both his and mine—joy and wonder turning into pain and sadness. During that week, watching him struggle, I was suddenly reminded of myself. That same small, uncertain boy who couldn’t make sense of the world? I saw him in my father’s eyes, in his steps.
He asks us to wait back and walks to the ticket counter to check in for his flight, leaning on his cane for support, taking each step cautiously yet determined.
He taught me to try.
As he walks back to meet us, he looks around, taking in all the sights and sounds and smells that, even as he struggles with Parkinson’s Dementia, he marvels at the beauty and wonder and excitement of the world.
He taught me to explore.
An airport employee brings over a wheelchair, and as he sits down, he smiles and offers the man a handshake, saying “Thank you for your help.”
He taught me to give.
Papa hugs Koda, Cora, Crys, and then me.
“Take care,” he says to me. I hug him tighter and kiss his cheek.
“Love you, Papa,” I say back.
“I love you, too, Zeke. I’ll see you soon.”
Zeke. His father called his boys by this nickname, and they used it with love and respect. As I got older, he started using it with me. I, in turn, would even use it to refer to him. Now, once in a while, I use it with my own son. It’s a term of endearment as comforting as his warm hand on my shoulder.
He taught me to believe. I didn’t know it at the time, but here, in the airport, would be our final walk.
The employee wheels him off to his gate. He fades from view, the stoic giant getting smaller and smaller the further he gets. The pain within me grows. My chest tightens. That lonely child begins to panic, searching the busy playground for the safety and security of the person who made him feel like it was all going to be okay.
Come back! Come back! What else is there to learn? What else is there to know? What haven’t you taught me? There must be more. There must be. What don’t I know? What haven’t you shared?
Come back!
One more walk, Zeke.
One more walk. Up a mountain, around the neighborhood, by a highway, you name it. Anywhere. You and me. Let’s laugh, let’s sing, let’s wonder. One more. What do you say? One more, Zeke. One more.
One more.
