musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

The Angry Bench


Some benches are more than places to rest, more than places with an impressive view; some seem to continually attract the same type of people. Perhaps some benches feel the mood of their occupants; perhaps some of them take on a sort of monochromal agency…

I have to admit that my acquaintance with most park benches is usually limited to that of curiosity about the plaques they bear. Some were obviously donated in remembrance of loved ones who frequented them -donated as spaces for others to enjoy and with the hope they will be  visited more than the tombstones of their loved ones who lie in lonely, forgotten cemeteries elsewhere. It’s a type of assigned immortality, I suppose.

There’s a bevy of benches along the seawall in West Vancouver. One in particular used to try to brandish its long-unreadable plaque at me like a beggar on a downtown street when I pass, but because it did not enjoy the shadows of a tree like many of the others, I seldom acceded to its entreaties. It is, however, within earshot of one of those more fortunate benches, so I imagine it doesn’t get too lonely -they’re all a community after all.

In fact, the bench under the tree is often occupied, so my choices are limited. I love the view of the ocean, and feeling the wind rolling off the Burrard Inlet, however. There are usually multiple ships anchored far out in English Bay being pestered by sailboats that seem like little children playing tag around them. Still, despite the enchanting scene, the occupants of the prize bench under the tree frequently seem too distracted to watch the ocean.

The first time I accepted the entreaties of my lonely sun-drenched bench, I could hear people on its neighbour shouting. A little boy was throwing sticks at his brother who was sitting beside his mother. She, understandably became upset and yelled at him; he, not so understandably, stuck his tongue out at the both of them, and his brother began to scream. The mother eventually threw her arms up and stood, no doubt readying herself for a chase. A man -the father, I assume- came running along the path and grabbed the little stone-thrower and whacked him across his bottom. That produced a stereo-scream. The mother then yelled at the man, grabbed the little boy sitting beside her on the bench, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him along the path away from the man.

My bench and I didn’t know what to make of it all, but at least the man and his captive boy headed in the other direction. It’s hard to know what to do in situations like that isn’t it? I mean was it domestic abuse? A family quarrel? Or something that deserved to be reported…? I doubt if I could have recognized any of them again, so I got up and walked away feeling troubled and a little guilty for witnessing something about which I did nothing but watch; a memory of Hitchcock’s 1954 movie Rear Window played in my head…

The next time I walked along the Ambleside seawalk, I felt a strange kindship to my bench and greeted its entreaties as if it were an old friend with whom I’d shared precious memories. The bench under the trees was unoccupied this time, but I sat down on mine out of loyalty and just gazed out to sea, content as a purring cat. A tugboat was guiding a previously anchored ship towards the Lion’s Gate bridge just as the tides were changing and a standing sea was beginning to form near Siwash Rock close to the narrow channel under the bridge.

I didn’t see the other bench fill up; rather, I heard it before I noticed anything. There were only two people on it -a man and a much younger woman who was sobbing loudly- but because she was flailing her arms about I could tell by his gestures that he was also hearing ‘curses, not loud but deep’ as Macbeth put it, when talking about what he could expect in his old age.

“No, I will not…!” she was hissing between sobs.

“But, I don’t understand…”

“You never do, John; you don’t even try!” She suddenly reached over and punched him hard on his arm. “Go back to her, for God’s sake! I’ll bet she understands you better than I do.” She glared at him for a second or two, then after pasting a wry smile on her face, said “Actually, I’m sure she does…”

She got up off her bench and without even turning her head, walked hurriedly away from both the man, and us. I could almost feel my bench sigh when we saw him get up and follow slowly behind her on the path, limping slightly as he walked. No way he’d ever be able to catch her. I wasn’t sure who to pull for; I wasn’t sure I should be taking sides anyway.

I realized the everyday dramas occurring all around me if I stopped to observe them and I began to look forward to my walks along the seawall. On another hot and sunny day the next week, I decided I wanted to feel the breeze from the water again and headed for my favourite bench.

Unfortunately, it was occupied this time, despite the glaring sunlight bathing it, but as I approached, the two occupants got up and started to walk away from it.  At first they were smiling at each other, but as they sat down on the shaded bench, I could hear one of them complaining loudly about ‘my’ bench: it was just too sunny. His friend, though, said it was a quick and easy way to get a facial tan.

“You’re so bloody vain!” the sun-averse one was quick to add. “I mean you’ve already had to have some sort of a pre-cancerous spot removed from your nose you told me, remember?”

“Relax, Daniel,” his friend said, frowning. “You said you like me with a tan. And anyway you’re the one who rubbed sunscreen all over my face, legs, arms, and god knows where else…”

Daniel rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Are you always like this about tanning?”

“You of all people should be the last one to criticize! Your last partner, Billie, was black, right?”

Daniel scowled. “So, are we talking about previous relationships already?”

“So, are you into control already Daniel?”

Daniel stood up suddenly and shook his head angrily. “At least Billie never talked back, Gerrie,” he said, almost grinding his teeth as he talked. “You’ve got a lot to learn about relationships, kid…” he added as he turned and walked away.

Was there something about that shaded bench under the tree, or was I interpreting its occupants unfairly; was I somehow privy to an underside that we all try to hide…? I felt uncomfortable witnessing it, and leaned back on the sturdy wood frame in my sun-drenched location wondering if benches, like pets, take on the demeanour of those who are around them most.

One of the screws fastening the metal plaque to the wood dug into my back, and already bothered, I turned to look at it more closely. The writing, like the bench, was weathered and deeply scratched -neither were in their prime, but nevertheless, I tried to make it out. What I could read looked as if it was more deeply engraved into the metal and seemed to be a variation of a biblical passage: For he so loved the world… was all I could make out. The name and date of the person in whose memory the plaque had been placed was unreadable but I didn’t need a name… I understood.

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gozzter

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