There's Still Time
On aging, disability, and the slow loss of play in fatherhood.
Editor's Note: This is Part 2 of a three-part series on my family's past and present with the story of Peter Pan. Find the whole series so far here.
The Book, the Hook, and the Boy: Part II
"'Some day,' said Smee, 'the clock will run down, and then he'll get you.' Hook wetted his dry lips. 'Ay,' he said, 'that's the fear that haunts me.'"
– J.M. Barrie, Peter and Wendy
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The tick became almost audible when my wife closed the book, and my son fell asleep.
I sat in my son's room on the glider rocker—anxiety growing—as my wife and son lay in bed. My wife had just finished Chapter 12 of Peter Pan. Captain Hook and his pirates ambushed the Piccaninny tribe as they guarded the Lost Boys' underground hideout. After massacring the Piccanniny, Hook orders Smee to bang the tribe's victory tom-tom, luring the Lost Boys out under the assumption the Piccaninny had won.
Hook had spent the entire book obsessed with "good form," but time was ticking. The croc was closing in. The pirate was desperate.
As I thought about Hook's degenerative state, it took me back to my own history with the Peter Pan story and how much I've changed. I've known of Peter Pan for as long as I can remember. My grandma made me watch the Mary Martin musical version when I was five. I had a passing familiarity with the Disney film. I became a fan in 1991 when I was seven. I sat in the theater, entranced by Robin Williams in Hook. I was immediately obsessed. So many kids idolized Rufio, but I was a Pan fan—even though Williams doesn't become Peter Pan until an hour, 40 minutes, and 26 seconds into the film.
As I always did, I took my obsession to the max. I begged my mom to buy the VHS when it came out. I watched it incessantly, forcing the kids at my mom's in-home daycare to watch it with me. Then I would put on a camo t-shirt and green pants, and the other kids would follow me to our backyard, where a row of trees next to the road was the Lost Boys' hideout and the picnic table was the Jolly Roger. We spent the whole summer of 1992 immersed in Neverland. I had Hook toys and even Hook bedsheets. I slept on illustrations of Pan, Hook, Rufio, and Thud Butt until I was 12.
Now, I'm 40. I realize now that I still identify with Robin Williams' character, but the version from the first hour and 40 minutes. The version of Peter that became a pirate. Not because I hate that my kids act like kids, or that I'm obsessed with work like Peter Banning, but because—like Peter Banning—I've lost the ability to play like I used to.
I have cerebral palsy diplegia. It limits flexibility and range of motion in my legs. Thanks to innovative surgeries, my legs weren't as limited as a kid. I walked with a pronounced gait, but I could run and jump. Not nearly as well as other kids, but I could.
As an adult, I can't run or jump, in part because I lack the discipline to keep up with stretching and exercise. I can't chase my son and can barely keep up with my daughter, who learned to walk a few months ago.
Outside, it's harder. I spend most of it sitting on the deck, watching my son run with the dog, or standing still, pushing my daughter on the swing.
And like Hook, I feel the clock ticking. Instead of a crocodile, the clock lives inside my head. It's not a metaphor for the inevitability of death. It's a metaphor for the inevitable loss of mobility if I stay on my current path. I've been aware of this for a while. I've spent most of my adult life forming structures—lists and routines to keep myself moving. I've created a detailed map of ways to preserve the little mobility I have left or perhaps even gain more. Promises to myself, and now to my family, that I haven't been able to keep.
Chapter 12 of Peter Pan hit hard because I saw myself in Captain Hook. Despite his evil, ruthless nature, Hook held on to one rule: good form. In chapter 12, his desperation to finally defeat Peter caused an unraveling. His downfall was believing he could break this rule and still survive.
The difference, of course, is that while I had my own version of "good form"—routines, structure, a path to better health—I haven't followed it. I wasn't giving anything up. I was refusing to live it in the first place. But like Hook, I believed I could still survive on some level. And like Hook, the fear that haunts me is the clock running down.
There's still time. Like Peter Banning, I can reclaim my childhood, at least in part. I may never run again, but I don't have to lose my ability to walk. I don't have to struggle getting down on the floor or back up. I don't have to sit on the deck.
The first step is to accept my limitations and realize I'll never reclaim the days when I stood on my picnic table in my camo shirt, fighting Hook. If anything, I'll still play the role of Hook—not in real life, running from the clock, but in my son's imagination, inside his own Neverland, as he finds his inner Peter Pan.
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