My Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

By Jim Hagarty
2006

Ever since the fateful day when video game machines crossed the threshold of our home, a great divide has developed between the older and younger generations dwelling within. Sometimes it seems as though we are separated by some invisibly wired wall – old fogies on one side, young whippersnappers on the other – with the screams from the seniors unhearable by the juniors.

We are heading in totally different directions. We fret over hours of still-developing youthful hands on pistol-grip controllers. We think repetitive strain injury, they think fun, fun, fun. We think carpal tunnel syndrome, they think, who cares, this is fun, fun, fun. We think “outside time”, they think, no fun, no fun, no fun. We think attention deficit disorder brought on by hours of flickering TV images, they can’t remember the last four questions we just asked them.

We finally say, “NOW”.

They say, “Just a sec.”

We ask, “Why is it taking so long?”

They answer, “I have to save it.”

We accuse, “You’ve started a whole new game, haven’t you?”
They protest. “No, I’m still trying to save it.” Out comes the timer. Miraculously, the game is saved two seconds before the ding.

There are two cords involved in our game machine set ups. One from the electrical outlets to bring power to the TVs and one from the game machines to apparently bring life to the children, like some sort of electronic, digitized intravenous line.

But the timer-induced reprieve doesn’t last and frustration boils ever. Desperate measures are called for. Dad knows where the fuse which controls the upstairs TV is and slips downstairs to the electrical box to remove the intravenous and try to get the patients eating on their own again. Not his proudest moment.

“Dad, there’s something wrong with the TV. It just quit.”

Hmmm. I have no idea what’s wrong, you reply, shame washing over you like the sun on your face on the first day of spring. A half hour later, fuse is snapped back on. Game after game, the boy plays hockey through the TV, a game that is so realistic it is unbelievable.

“Wanna have a game Dad?”

Well, OK, you reply. You don’t want carpal tunnel syndrome but you’ll play just one. You get whupped. A rematch, you suggest.

Whupping continues.

Another game.

Whupping without mercy.

One more.

Somewhere, the hockey gods are crying or laughing, or both. Wounded pride and curiosity sends you back to the machine when evening falls and only adults and cats are still awake.

Maybe with a little practice against a team controlled by the machine…

Game one.

A loss.

Game two.

Bigger loss.

All is quiet in the house.

Wife, cats, kids – all asleep.

But Dad is in a duel to the death with a little grey box, a bunch of boob tube Toronto Maple Leafs and a heartless squad of Red Wings who taunt him after every goal they score.

Repetitive strain injury be darned. This is fun, fun, fun.

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.