COLUMN: Galesburg

They say "you can't go home again." I've clearly been proving them wrong.

I've spent a good chunk of this past week in my hometown of Galesburg. My mom took it upon herself to book an unexpected two-week stay at the fabulous bed & breakfast resort known as OSF St. Mary's Medical Center, so I've been doing a fair share of commutes lately.

Don't worry, she's home now and doing much better -- and it wasn't anything COVID-related -- but it definitely wasn't the most fun couple of weeks a person could have.

When I say Galesburg's my hometown, I'm kind of lying. Technically speaking, I don't have a hometown. I grew up in the country, about five miles northeast of the 'Burg. When I go home for a visit, I don't even need to go into town -- I usually just head straight into the sticks.

But between hospital visits and food runs, I've been spending quality time within the city limits of the town I used to run amok in -- and things ARE mighty different. 

Back in my day, the area around St. Mary's was truly the edge of town. The hospital was effectively in the country. But a few years back, they built a fancy new Wal-Mart in that corridor, which means the former edge of town is now bustling with fast-food joints and strip malls. Honestly, for once I'm a little jealous of my parent's locale -- they've got a Buffalo Wild Wings and a McAlister's and a Burger King and a Pizza Ranch all within five minutes of my once-isolated childhood home.

Of course, I'm not especially jealous of my mom right now, because the only haute cuisine she's been enjoying is water and Jello. When I asked what flavor it was, I was told "green." Seeing as how it's fairly impolite to sneak food into the hospital room of someone who can't eat, I was resorting to scarfing down burgers in the hospital parking lot, trying not make a spectacle of myself as the staff went about their shift changes.

It must have worked, because the first time I visited, I didn't even discover until later that I wasn't supposed to have made it through the door. I just walked in, nodded at the attendant, and went straight to the elevator up to my mom's room. I didn't even realize that COVID-19 protocols were still in play, and every patient was only allowed ONE support person (in this case, my dad.) They were supposed to have cross-checked me against a list of approved visitors. They were supposed to have checked my temperature and issued me hand sanitizer.

I didn't know any of this. I just strolled on in and nobody stopped me. Only later, when a surprised nurse walked in and gave me the third degree, did I realize I was in breach of protocol. Clearly this can only mean one thing: I must resemble a neurosurgeon. The attendant must have noticed my confidence, poise, and profound level of maturity and naturally assumed I was an important doctor here to do important doctorish things. I'm sure its nearly impossible to tell the difference between a cardiac surgeon and a chubby newspaper columnist wearing a t-shirt that says "your favorite band sucks."

I was summarily and justifiably booted from the premises. Given my hermitic ways, I'm pretty sure I was in more danger of catching COVID-19 from them than they were from me, but rules are rules and safety first. Thankfully, a couple days later they eased back the protocols. Mom was allowed two designated visitors and I made the list (sorry, Aunt Merry, you missed the cut.)

Once upon a time, a simple roadtrip home wasn't a big deal. I love any excuse to go for a drive. Once I left the house on a food run and ended up in northern Wisconsin. Roadtrips are my jam. But the older I get, the longer that stretch of highway gets. Instead of just hopping in the car, I'm running through checklists in my mind like a mature person (gross.) Do I have water? Check. Mask? Check. Advil? Check. Imodium? Can't be too cautious. Anything could happen on the mean streets of the Illinois interstate system.

Advil turned out to be a good idea. I fell on the ice two winters ago in a comically ridiculous way, and I'm pretty sure my butt's still broken. Get me in a car for longer than a half hour and there's a good chance my tailbone will start screaming. I should probably see somebody about that, lest I become a crochety old man whose butt predicts the weather ("Uh oh, my coccyx is flaring up. Hard rain's a-comin'!") 

Driving down Henderson Street in Galesburg always reminds me of high school weekends, when the required social activity was cruising the strip from the McDonalds on Henderson to the McDonalds on Main over and over again. Do teenagers even do that any more? Have I reached the age where I just sit around and start stories with, "Back in MY day..."? Apparently so, since I already started a sentence with those very words a few paragraphs above.

Change is inevitable. My mom liked to amuse me with stories about life before television. Our generation's children are equally blown away by our tales of life before cellphones. THEIR children will probably be saying things like "do you remember the olden days when cars used to roll around on WHEELS?" But whether we have to walk, drive, fly, or teleport, family will always be family, and I'm lucky to have one that will always welcome me.

It might not look the same, but you can DEFINITELY go home again.