Last Monday afternoon, April 29, I made a point of paying a visit to Seton Villa, a government-subsidized Assisted Living facility in north Burnaby.
The idea was to take stock of its location, structure and surroundings so that I could decide whether to include it in my application list or not. So far, I have only chosen Clarendon Court. But my case manager reminded me that since that court is located in Vancouver under Coastal Mountain Health Authority, my chance of being admitted to it is fairly small, if not impossible.
Now, one month has passed since she urged me to look around for more suitable places but my multi-appointments and procedures, plus winds and rains, have hampered my action.
It had recently cleared up, so I lost no time leaving home at 2:55 p.m. to catch the 3:10 p.m. NB Bus 129 at Barker as TransLink's online Trip Planner suggested.
It says that the bus will ride about half an hour before I should get off at Hastings and change to 131 at Gilmore. And then, by 131, several stops on, I should get off somewhere near McGill. That’s where the Villa is.
But once on the bus, I was carried away by the cottages and trees lining the streets, all blinking in the bright sunshine, which had been shy all this season.
Soon I dozed off, and missed the Willingdon-Gilmore stop. The bus was speeding on when a sudden jolt woke me up.
Hurriedly, I got up from my seat and jockeyed through the swaying passengers toward the driver for a word with him. I made it. However, the answer he gave to my question was rather a bummer: "Way past! Can’t help now!" Helpless, I rode on to Edmonds, the terminus. By then, it was already 4 p.m.
When all had got off, I made my last effort to ask the driver how I might go back to a place called Seton Villa on Burnaby Heights, which we seemed to have passed by. Seeing how anxious I was, he stepped up to take a closer look at my address sheet. Then, he said soberingly, "Well, we passed Capitol Hill but didn’t go anywhere near Burnaby Heights, and I’ve never heard of Seton Villa either. I mustn’t give you wrong information. But if you must go there now, you better stay here, and try 133. It’s coming."
Now, obviously, he was as much in need to go somewhere as I was. Anyway, for all I was worth, I managed to return to the same Bay before a 133 moved in.
Fellow passengers let me climb on first, toting the walker, and I seized the first opportunity to show the new driver my address sheet, seeking his advice. Yet, as my luck would have it, his answer was also "Sorry, I’ve no idea!"
Blurr … the bus set off. It rode and stopped, stopped and rode on, but never seemed to be approaching Gilmore.
I mustn’t give up, though, I told myself. Clinging on to the driver’s plastic window, I entreated him yet again, "I beg your pardon, sir, but could you please tell me where might be the possible or approximate place for me to get off and change? The driver of 129 told me just now that you, of 133, is going in that direction."
At this, quite unexpectedly, he halted at a minor stop on Hastings and came out of his cab. He took a closer look at my address, fingered out his cell-phone and searched for a while. "Well, I think you could get off at Hastings and Willingdon, and then ask people there for help. I’m sorry but we don’t go north, we’re going west from here on." That said, he swiftly hopped back behind the wheel.
Here now, a spectacled young man shouldering a backpack took over. He offered to escort me off at the said road juncture, "I’m getting off there, you may just follow me."
So, I was now at the crossroads of Hastings and Willingdon, looking around for 131.
An elderly couple passed by. They noticed my awkwardness and hesitancy: lifting up and down a walker at the curb! They reached out in no time, asking where I’m off to, and how they might help. I levelled with them. Yet they do not live in that area, either.
After a few hurried taps on their phone, they were still not quite sure of where the 131 stop is; anxiously they turned to another passer-by, who stopped and figured out our dilemma. Quite assuredly, he told us that 131 is a small community bus, taking round routes in this uplevel area. "Today is Saturday, it comes in every one hour. And even if I wait to take it and get off at the right stop, there might still be a bit of a walk up and about for me to reach the said Villa. Won’t be easy for you, man!"
This stretch of conversation happened to be heard by a young man leaning against a BMW several feet up the road.
"Why not use my car?" He cut in, "I can drive you there!" Seeing what he was saying had caught our attention, he went on more enthusiastically, "I’m running errands just now anyway."
"That’d be marvelous," the elderly couple echoed. Yet, spontaneously, I hesitated. I declined. "No! No! No! Don’t let me hold you up, and add any extra burden on you."
For all that, the guy insisted, and the couple agreed, persuading, "Well, if it won’t add too much trouble to him, we’d be happy seeing you take a hitch with him."
At this point of time, I, or rather, the couple and I, looked squarely at the young man in front of us. He is tall, strong, handsome, anywhere in his 30s, but limping, his left leg in a caster, leaving only toes bare on a metal sole, and his lower right leg thickly bandaged too — How could he … …? How could I … …? I debated with myself.
But before I would ask, the guy began his story.
"That was two months ago. By now, you see, I’m perfectly OK, soon to be caster and bandage free. I can go as far as I need, with the aid of these two crutches, of course, and most important, I can drive. You want to go to Seton Villa, right? It’s just a couple of minutes away from here. I’m familiar with this neighbourhood. So, don’t you worry and hesitate, let me be your chauffeur," he smiled.
Knowing he had convinced the couple and me as well, he lost no time grabbing and folding my walker, hurled it into the back seat of his car, and edged me on round to the other side. He let me sit beside him.
"You’re going out of your way to help me, but I don’t even know your name," I said.
"I’m Jonathan, and you?"
"Daniel."
"Oh, a name from the Bible. I’m Christian ……" Our conversation would have gone on but the car came to a stop. "Here you are! Seton Villa."
A lady ran out of a building to meet us. She helped me off the car, leading the walker along for my steadier moving toward the Villa. Jonathan waved his hand, shouting, ‘"Enjoy your visit, Daniel, and have a good evening, you two."
"Thank you so very much, indeed, Jonathan." I thought of having a picture with him but he was gone.
What followed was that I, an uninvited old man, received warm, special greetings from Juliana, who introduced herself.
Needless to say, I was apologetic, "I’m so sorry but I really didn’t mean to disturb you at this time of the day."
I pleaded my senior moments, plus frustrating bus rides, and explained how I was eager to get a rough idea of the distance, traffic, access and ride time before I could come to a well-meditated inclusion of the Villa on my choice list.
"That’s fine," she responded, "Guess you are Daniel. You called us the other day, didn’t you?"
Surprised, I sort of stuttered, repeating only Yes … Yes, yes.
"You’re welcome, all the same. We just would like you to put us on your submission to the Health Authority first, so that we can arrange a formal tour. That’s our protocol, you know, not just to you," Juliana continued, warmly and surely, about their set-up, and ended up giving me a brochure and a calendar.
The extra-large clock on the wall of the reception room showed it was 5:40 p.m. already, high time I left.
Juliana walked me out to the gate and directed me to the stop of Bus 131, which turned out to be just opposite the Villa.
Night had closed in. The walker I lifted up and down, now and again, with greater caution, but feeling lighter.
By 6:40 p.m., when I finally got back home, Rachel had prepared me a large bowl of rice cakes in chicken soup.
- Daniel Ngai, Burnaby
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