A Moment of Grace

Emergency rooms in real life are nothing like they are on television shows. On TV, things are fast paced and injured people are whisked into rooms where harried but dedicated doctors work their magic while shouting out stuff like “stat!”

In real life, emergency rooms are a whole lot of sitting around and waiting. Granted, big city ERs…like the one I found myself in this past Sunday…have lots of people to deal with and they have to prioritize…frankly I just wish that my infected finger had been a high enough priority so that I didn’t have to sit in the waiting room for four hours (A&E was showing a Godfather marathon so I got to watch the end of Part 2 and a large chunk of Part 3) and sit in the examination room for another three hours waiting for a doctor to come take a look at my throbbing, swelling digit and decide that I needed to be admitted.

That said, the waiting room stay was warmed by a precious moment of grace: a little Latina (she couldn’t have been more than 2, there with her family waiting for someone to come out…none of them spoke English) came over and took my finger (it had been bandaged at my first stop at an “urgent care” clinic) and patted it gently and looked up at me with big brown eyes full of precocious wisdom and compassion as if to say “everything will be okay.” Just then the billing department called me in to check my insurance card and when I came out the family was gone.

The finger required surgery and two rest-broken nights in the hospital (the heavily bandaged finger…the middle finger of my left hand…is making it something of an adventure to type…you never realize how much you use something like that until you can’t.

I’m home with powerful antibiotics and enormous gratitude that I can sleep in my own bed…where well-meaning people won’t be waking me up every two hours to check vitals, change IVs, or administer shots…it’s all good.

And the healing...

…I want you to put on your pretty summer dress,
you can wear your Easter bonnet and all the rest,
and I wanna make love to you…yes, yes…
and the healing has begun…

“Silly man,” she said with heartbreaking warmth and urgency, “don’t you dare run away.”

She knew him all too well, he thought. He had come to the door but had been, quiet foolishly he hoped, too afraid of a welcome not fond to actually ring the bell.

Their breakup had been awkward and sudden…not from a lack of love but rather from a fear of where their love was on the verge of taking them. Wounded deeply by love in the past both of them were wary of acknowledging what they were feeling and so came the sabotage.

Once they were apart they knew that they had made a horrible mistake but pride and irrational fear of rejection had kept them apart. The rift between them, willfully and foolishly hewn, seemed beyond healing almost as soon as it opened up.

And then she pushed past the fear and wrote to him. And then he pushed past the fear and called her. And they waltzed…at odd angles and with hopeful, wary steps…an emotional dance with each other that seemed to go on for an agonizing eternity.

He showed up at her door, a small bouquet held fast in his hand, a huge lump in his throat threatening to cut off his breath. He was terrified that the light in her eyes that once kept his soul safe and warm would be dimmed.

She had felt his presence before he was actually on her porch. As he drew near to the house she put on the dress…the flowing blue one that he had secretly bought after she had fallen in love with it but had demurred given its cost…and tried to still the thundering of her heart.

“I wasn’t going to run away,” he lied. He looked up and felt himself drowning in her beautiful eyes…and he rejoiced at that. And he rejoiced in the light that he found in those eyes…undimmed, it warmed and made safe his very being.

He stepped forward. She stepped forward. They folded into each other and…tentatively at first and then ardently…their lips came together.

She pulled back and touched his face. “We’re going to be okay now,” she said with assurance as sure as it was it quiet.

He nodded and pulled her close again. “Yes,” he said closing his eyes and thrilling to the fragrance of her hair, the sweet warmth of her breasts, the tender strength of her hand around his neck, “yes, we will.”

She nuzzled against his chest. She listened to the thunder of his heart which was echoing, almost beat for beat, the pounding of her own heart. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in the comfort of his arms around her.

They stood there in the doorway, their hearts pounding, their love conquering their fears and then they stepped in. She took the flowers and he smiled at how lovely she looked in the dress and they stepped inside and closed the door behind them. And the healing…and the healing had begun.

“And the Healing has Begun”
words and music by Van Morrison
©1979 Essential Music, BMI

Me and Bob and Jesse and Rosemary

So it was me and Bob (Dylan) sitting in the backseat of a big old jet black Lincoln while a pale blonde guy named Jesse was sitting in the front passenger seat smoking a big cigar and shouting into a cell phone and a buxom Mexican-Irish woman named Rosemary was behind the wheel pushing 65 down a winding road circling a steep mountain.

Rosemary negotiated each curve with a calm aplomb that belied that fact that each screeching turn could be our last while Jesse smoked and shouted and Bob was lying back with his eyes closed humming the tune to a song he was writing in his head.

Me, I occasionally broke the fourth wall of the experience and realized that it was all a very vivid dream and, in those fleeting moments of lucidity, I wondered what exactly Darryl had put in those brownies.

Rosemary, who laughed every time we took an especially sharp turn but who was otherwise quiet, kept a steady hand on the wheel; she was dressed all in black…black t-shirt, black jeans, black leather cap…something I prayed wasn’t some kind of omen.

Bob looked over at me and mumbled something; I couldn’t make out a single word he said. He fixed me with a laser-hot stare as he waited for me to reply. I shrugged and said “Yeah?” Bob smiled and punched me in the arm and then he closed his eyes and started to hum again.

Jesse cursed and threw the phone out of the window as we took an especially sharp curve with apparently only two wheels on the road and Rosemary laughed. Bob hummed and Jesse smoked and Rosemary gunned the big old jet black Lincoln down the seemingly endless mountain road laughing around every perilous curve and me, I was surprisingly calm throughout it all.

And then I woke up.

“Okay,” I said as I reluctantly acclimated myself to the morning light sneaking in through the window shades, “that was interesting.”

I made a mental to note to ask Darryl about those brownies the next time I saw him.

150 Words: Choices

We haven’t heard from you lately, is something wrong?

I presumed that you didn’t want to hear from me.

Why? Because of the other day? Look, we just didn’t want to upset her…

I got that. You made a choice and I have to respect that.

It’s not like that…we didn’t make a choice.

Yes you did. You made a choice where no one was asking you to make a choice but that’s cool.

That’s not fair.

Maybe not…but there it is. Anyway, like I said, it’s cool…I understand.

It doesn’t mean that we don’t love you too.

Okay.

Now you’re upset.

Really, I’m not. Choices are made and we live with them. That’s life. It’s all good.

Things were hectic and there was so much to do…

Yeah, again, that’s life. It’s cool.

Are we good?

Sure…it’s always important to know where we stand.

Love you.

Love you too.

15 Years, 16 Days

15 years, 16 days…in the grand tapestry of most lives that’s a significant part of the journey towards the light and whatever lies beyond. It’s a long time…a decade and a half of life, love, experience, dreams, music, magic, heartbreak, passion, peace…and a seeming blink of an eye when it’s gone.

15 years, 16 days…a slice of my lifetime, a slice of your lifetime, and, for some, the sum total of a lifetime.

Autumn was a sweetheart…a funny, fuzzy red bear of a dog (mostly Chow but with the gregarious personality of a gentle German Shepherd) who never met anyone she didn’t like (with the possible exception of Mr. Gambino, the hyperactive tuxedoed cat who, much to his chagrin, could never get as close to Autumn as Bart, the laidback surfer dude cat of the house, did with casual ease)…she liked to take long walks (and did so until her failing joints made it impossible) and to have her head rubbed….she liked to smile and have her belly rubbed…she liked to kiss babies and anyone else who stayed still long enough for her to happily lick them…she liked to bark like she was the ferocious guard dog in the world and then greet anyone who came into the house with curious brown eyes and a big wagging tail.

One day in December she spent a perfect day in the company of friends and family, happily giving and getting attention between naps and meals and time spent wandering her backyard…and the next day all that she was suddenly left…her eyes were open but the light of recognition was gone.

Maybe it was a stroke…maybe it was old age finally catching up with her (her hearing had been fading for a couple of years and her hind legs had been growing weaker over the same period)…I don’t know. And I don’t care. The veterinarian offered slim options, none of which would lead to her coming back…none of which would lead to her living the peaceful, pain-free, proud life she once knew. In the end the decision was mine and…reluctantly…I made.

The doctor told me it was the right decision only after I made it but, unsurprisingly, that didn’t make it feel any better (even as it was about to happen, I was stroking her head and fighting the urge to stop it.)

Autumn lived for 15 years, 16 days…she lived for a grand and cherished lifetime…and, thankfully, she lives still in the hearts of those of us who loved her and there her bright spirit will linger for all the rest of our days.

The Old Man in the Coffee Aisle

I noticed the humming first. It was a soft, beguiling, masculine sound that was warm and welcoming; it effortlessly cut through the vapid drone of the emotionless music coming from the supermarket’s sound system.

As I came around the corner I saw him…a little old man with silvery white hair and twinkling gray eyes shining from behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses. The little old man…he couldn’t have been more than 5’2 tall…was staring intently at the very top row of cans and bags of coffee while patiently humming his lovely little song.

He glanced up at me…I was a foot taller than he…and smiled. “Can you spare a moment, son?” he asked after he stopped humming. “It appears that the good folks who run this establishment have conspired to keep an old man with arthritis from easily obtaining his favorite coffee,” he said with a bright smile in his voice, “and I was wondering if you would help me out.”

“Sure,” I said, pushing my shopping cart to the side so that other shoppers who might come down the aisle could get by, “I’d be happy to. What do you need?”

“There’s a good fellow.” The old man patted my arm and then pointed up to rows of blue cans on the top shelf. “The Maxwell House dark roast,” he said.

“Ah,” I smiled as reached up and retrieved a can, “like your coffee strong, huh?”

The old man chuckled as he accepted the can and put it in his own cart. “That’s the only way to drink coffee, lad,” he replied. “Thank you for your help.”

“No problem, sir,” I said getting back behind my cart and moving down the aisle. “Have a good day.”

“I shall, young man,” he said, pushing his own cart slowly towards the dairy cases at the other end of the aisle, “you do the same.”

He began to hum again, a melody at once familiar and so very hard to place; I smiled again and went on to gather the rest of my groceries with that song echoing sweetly in my head from that point through the rest of my day.