I had Ben this past Sunday and was driving him to a Ben-sized
lacrosse game. He was tired but excited to play. He had on his helmet
and pads already and was looking out the back window. I had NPR on the radio
instead of my normal practice of listening to Ben’s favorite songs over and
over.
On this particular day, rain clouds had been fighting a
winning skirmish with blue sky, and tiny drops dotted my windshield.
From NPR, an Irish voice filled the cabin. It was a man, maybe thirty,
telling a story of traveling to Leeds from London to be with his mother. She
was not doing well, and in fact was dying. He was a wreck. It looked as though
he wouldn’t make his British Rail connection at a mid-point stop and he was red-eyed from crying as he stared out the window into rain-swept countryside, passing with
the rhythmic pulse of the rails.
The conductor approached for tickets. The man
presented his. The conductor punched it. But then he remained there in the
aisle, looking at the man. In his dialect he asked the man if he was alright.
The man, telling the story on the radio in his Gaelic accent, spoke to us as if
we were sharing a beer, “Why would he give some great care? I was a big lad
then, and thought I ought to drag him up the aisle and fling him from the
train…. But I didn’t. I looked at him and explained why I was having a bad go.”
The conductor listened and said he was indeed sorry to
hear of it and hoped he would make his connection. The man turned back to the window and his blackness.
The conductor returned a few minutes later and told the man
that the train would wait for him at his connection, “The other
passengers will kick up a fuss, but thass not the point is it. The important point
is for you to make your connection. You jump over to the other platform quick as ya
like, and then your train will leave.”
The man made his connection with both the train and his
momma. He finished the story with “as long as I live I won’t hear a bad word said
about British Rail.”
In the car my thoughts were with Ben. He told me he liked
the sound of the man’s voice, and how his words sounded like a song. I glanced
up at him in the rear-view mirror as I always do. The moment touched me; the
story, the man’s voice, the rain, and Ben, sitting with his child’s face turned
to the window, mouthpiece in, resting his lacrosse helmet against it as the
mist hung settled over the road.
I wanted to describe the kindnesses done for us over these
past months, just like the conductor’s. I told him about some of them, and I
think they settled within his mind; solid stones in the foundation of
having and maintaining friends.
Yesterday I had a CT scan again. I am waiting now for the
results. A contrast dye must be injected
into your veins via IV to show any abnormalities. It's a large bore
IV, about as big as a cocktail
straw. To put it colorfully, it hurts if it’s done well, and it really hurts if not. The guy who put mine in had a bad day. The IV hurt really badly, making my head swim and my body sweat.
Once you have the IV, you leave the nurses’ area to sit in
the waiting room and drink contrast for about an hour. People all around me had
IVs and were sitting placidly watching Ellen crawl-dance to a Lady Gaga song.
I looked at
them with contempt. Their IVs must have been the good kind. Meanwhile I was
sweating through my shirt and trying to breathe deeply. I was not watching
Ellen, or at least not enjoying it. I returned to the nurses’ area to see if
someone other than the first guy could help me.
Mandy found me. She had tattooed ankles, those doctor shoes
that look like leather clogs, the normal blue scrubs, and a bedside manner that
immediately put me at ease. She was from Austin and having a good day—an Austin
angel with ankle tats.
She tested the IV and told me it was working beautifully.
She wanted to show me how beautiful it was and asked me to look. When I did
there was a large syringe hooked to it and my blood swirled placidly in the
saline solution used to test and clean IVs. I immediately became faint and
requested to no longer be witness to what a beautiful IV it was…. Braveheart I
am not.
She had other patients waiting. I was an unexpected extra,
but she tended to me. I felt a little wimpy listening to an older guy talk
casually about if his IV was in yet or not….I sure as hell knew when
mine went in. Mandy laughed at my grimaced joke and talked about South Congress.
She wrapped my IV arm in ice, which gave my brain something else to think
about. The IV stopped throbbing so painfully, and by that time I was called
back to the CT machine so it would be over soon.
Mandy was my British Rail conductor. She didn’t have to stop
working on others to help me out. She did a small nice thing for me, and made
my day better. Her kindness only took a few moments, and it was her
job. But it made me hurt less, and I wanted to note it here.
All around us every day humans take time out to help others.
School counselors send encouraging notes to parents. Kids sit with other kids at
lonesome lunch tables. Someone gives a compliment on a new dress. Grandparents
give special birthday shopping trips to their grandkids. Friends and relatives take time to send
videos, emails, letters and texts with encouragement, love and connection.
These moments are what set us apart. These actions make us better
than others. These kindnesses keep us in the realm of spiritual creatures with conscience.
It comes naturally to some of us. Several friends come to
mind who give and give and give without ever expecting a return. They walk down
life’s aisles looking for young souls in need of a little help.
They may not know it now, but everyday they change the
course of a thousand tons of flesh and iron to help bring us all closer to
divinity.
A note on the CT scan: it showed positive results. The cancer is taking a bigger beating than I am, and I am making progress toward the ultimate goal of a liver transplant. This is a great result of several months of feeling pretty dodgy, and several more waiting in the future. It helps to justify the journey when we can successfully go through a few gates. The tube remains until we get the new liver. Thank you for the on-going thoughts, notes and prayers.
