Category Archives: Relationships

Please Let Me Recognize Human Beings Again

I learned something today. At least one of the lessons was a bit intense, but the point was driven home alright. I even have some homework to do. Let me tell you about it.

I had begun my rainy Monday morning with a big old cup of black coffee and some quality one-on-one time with a local friend and co-mentor. We discussed fear, risk, the art of customer service, and more. It’s important that you know this because I find our coffee sessions enlightening and uplifting. So despite the cool dampness and on-again-off-again sprinkles from above, I had gotten off on a positive spin and this may well have made a substantial difference in the events that followed.

Less than an hour later, I drove my wife to her appointment at a wound care practice in nearby Joliet. The office is a remarkably busy place that emphasizes the importance of punctuality whenever scheduling an appointment and at every opportunity thereafter. The staff calls in their patients two and three at a time. Karen had already gone in and I was occupying myself as I usually do, by working through my unread emails, when a gentleman limped in, under his own power, had a few words at the reception window, and then took a seat in the waiting room, talking the whole time.

Something wasn’t right about him. He was an older man, right around my age, with salt-and-pepper hair and a grayish beard. He wore shorts and loose-fitting mesh slip-on shoes with the backs folded down. He wore no socks, but both his ankles were wrapped in some sort of white cloth bandages that continued down and around his heels. Whatever wounds he had were down in that region. I hadn’t paid attention to a word the man said, but he never seemed to stop talking. I buried myself in my work at hand, seldom looking up from my phone. That is until the man got up again and limped back to the reception window.

That was an unusual move. Nobody goes back to the reception window at that place. Now the man’s voice was escalating and was soon so loud that even I could understand what he was saying, whether I was actively listening or not. Over and over again, he exclaimed, “Are you kidding me?” At one point he slammed his hands on the window counter and began physically leaning into the reception workstation space. The man grew louder and more agitated. “I don’t believe this! I was just half an hour late and now you won’t see me! I’m in so much pain! Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t hear what the reception staff was saying in response. His rant had grown increasingly repetitive.

After a few more minutes, the man straightened up and was no longer leaning into the reception workspace. “This place sucks,” he announced before turning to walk away. Then he turned toward me, still sitting on the opposite side of the room. “And you!” He pointed a shaky hand at me and began limping across the room toward me. “You motherfucker! I sat there trying to talk to you and all you did was ignore me!” There wasn’t another soul in the waiting room. I looked up at his face. When he was sitting, he had been in a corner down the row of seats from me. As I mentioned, he had never stopped talking, but I had no idea he was ever speaking to me. I could feel his anguish. Call it empathy, call it decades of learning and teaching others to diffuse angry calls from customers and vendors, call it whatever you want, but when I looked up, I did not see anger in that man’s face. All I could see, hear, and feel was his frustration and pain. Lots of it. I felt sorry for the man as he limped up, still pointing at me and yelling.

I wasn’t being threatened and I felt no desire to physically engage a man who was nearly crippled by his pain. My heart rate never appreciably increased. I saw no reason to escalate the situation further. Instead, I held up my hand, looked him straight in the eyes, and told him the utter truth. “I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing. I had no idea that you were talking to me. I thought you were on the phone.” We never broke eye contact.

“Oh, no! No! No! I had no idea you were hard of hearing.” The man stopped pointing, took one more step, and grasped my upheld hand. “I’m so sorry, please! I’m in so much pain! God bless you. Please, I’m sorry.” It wasn’t the news of my hearing loss that had changed this man’s demeanor in an instant. It was the realization that there was at least one person in the room who hadn’t disregarded him.

“You’re okay,” I assured the stranger, as he stood over me, still holding my hand, still frustrated, almost sobbing. “We’re just having a rough day here.” He nodded, apologized, and blessed me a few more times before turning and walking out of the waiting room. Things got weirder after that.

The man reappeared at the door, apologized, and blessed me one more time. Then he walked away a second time. Two or three staffers came out to the waiting area. One locked the office door. Another mouthed to me from across the room, “Are you okay?” I raised one hand and nodded my assurance that I was fine. Someone asked whether the back door was locked. They were all petrified.

After a short while, one of them walked out and unlocked the office door again. Moments later, the man returned once more, limping around and still trying to get seen by someone. He sat back down in the waiting area talking about his pain. I looked at him and nodded. No longer perceiving me as part of his problem, he just nodded back at me. Moments after that, four uniformed security guards entered and while they were talking to the gentleman, one of the staffers appeared in the background and silently beckoned me to come in the back with all the others. I complied. Still seated, the man was suggesting to the guards that they could carry him out. Taking his feet out of his shoes, he beckoned the guards to look at the exposed parts of his feet, which were terribly swollen and red with inflammation. I can only imagine what the wrapped parts looked like. I sensed he was receiving no sympathy from the guards and wasn’t going to get any.

Everyone was standing together in the back hallway looking really frightened when I walked back there. More than one staffer asked me if I was okay. I told them that I absolutely was but that I’d felt sorry for the guy. Still, I wondered whether any of them had shown that man in the waiting room nearly as much concern as they were showing me. They asked me to join my wife in her examining room and again, I complied. In defense of the staffers, and probably the doctors hiding back there somewhere, I’m sure they had all been polite and professional, doing everything according to policy. They were not the bad guys. It’s just that I’m not positive there was a bad guy. By the time we left, the man and the guards were gone.

Oscar Wilde wrote, “Experience is the hardest kind of teacher. It gives you the test first and the lesson afterward.” From the wound care center, Karen and I drove back to Plainfield, stopping at our local Meijer to pick up some scrips and various sundries. Afterward, while I was breaking down and loading up Karen’s mobility scooter, affectionately named K-9, a familiar cart jockey walked up and began talking to me. This young man has always been people-friendly, inquisitive, and chatty. Some teenagers seem to have these qualities, while many do not. It has long been my experience that most cart jockeys don’t even make eye contact, let alone initiate a conversation, so this kid tends to stand out. It is through these unanticipated encounters, however, that one gradually gets the sense this young gentleman may be an individual with cognitive delay, doing menial tasks for which he has been deemed qualified, all while displaying a personality that points to something greater.

He displayed a great interest in the way Karen’s scooter could be disassembled. “I didn’t know they could come apart,” he said, looking over the base, seat, and battery. Technically, Karen’s scooter can be broken down further, but in those three pieces, K-9 easily fits in the minivan. In five pieces, the unit will fit into my car’s trunk. But I digress.

On some days, my response might have been limited to a quick “yep,” while hurrying to get done and move on. But after my earlier encounter, I was more inclined to go ahead and give this young man a few minutes of my time, the same as any other human being would be entitled. I explained that not all of these scooters come apart, especially the bigger ones. He went to pick up the portable battery compartment and I cautioned him that it was the heaviest piece of the rig. He hesitated and then proceeded to lift the black box with a little more respect for its heft. As he walked off to continue his work, I got the sense that he had appreciated our conversation. I’m sure not everybody in that parking lot affords him that much dignity.

Yes, I learned something today, mainly about myself, and now I have some homework to do. First and foremost, I realized that while I encounter many people on any given day in my life. I need to recognize them as human beings while I’m at it. Not only that but I need to appreciate them as such. Some folks out there may act like real assholes at first glance. Others may seem downright crazy. Some may seem a bit slow. Some have anger issues. I drive in Chicagoland traffic and sometimes I can feel the stress coming off some of my fellow drivers. Maybe some are in pain, physical or otherwise. Of course, none of them has the right to hurt others, but all are human beings, just like you and me.

Second, it’s true that my hearing is less than great. Some of it was missing from birth and I killed off a good bit more over the decades with my loud music, motorcycling, and other elements of my lifestyle. As a result, it is my obligation to be more aware and observant when I am out and about in the world, so that if and when I encounter someone in need, I will recognize them sooner. To be cognizant of one’s environment is to enjoy it more, to move in greater safety, and to be of benefit to others.

You know, I’ve never considered myself to be above any other human being, regardless of social stature, education, race, religion, sock color, whatever. But what do I convey to other human beings via my words or actions? We all communicate to those around us with our words, our body language, and for those who can sense it, our energy. I need to examine my habits and rework them as necessary to ensure my own message is clear.

Finally, what have I done to improve myself lately? And in light of that, who am I to judge anybody else? Hmmm.

Okay, time to get to work. As always, thanks for hanging with me.

Yes I Am the Bad Guy

Some theologians profess that God permits evil in this world in order to bring about a greater good. I promise you that I am not here to argue theology but please bear this point in mind as I share a couple of stories with you because it may become pertinent. Now let me be the first to admit that I am no angel. In fact there are at least a few people out there who probably suspect the opposite about me.

From as far back as I can remember, I have always been a spiritual sort but despite this, I have repeatedly fallen in and out of conformity to the practices — and presumed good graces — of organized religion, specifically Roman Catholicism. I am writing this largely for the benefit of my children and any of their subsequent offspring that may follow, but the rest of you may be amused as well. Let’s talk.

I think I was about fourteen years old when I began to have feelings for this girl from Indiana whose mom was a work associate and good friend of an aunt of mine. By way of the ongoing friendship between those adults, “Agnes” (not her name) and I would meet from time to time and, being close in age, would get paired together. I saw my first major rock concert with her at a stadium in Bloomington, Indiana. We even went on a few trips together. We were too young to know much about love but at that age, the hormones were doing their thing and, well, suffice it to say that we liked each other and never hesitated to express our affections when we were without adult supervision.

One autumn day, I was tagging along with my aunt to run errands in her 1975 Caprice Classic station wagon. As is often the case with young teens, my mind was on that girl. At some point, my aunt commented, “You really like Agnes, don’t you.”

I responded without even thinking, “Sure!” I will never forget what my aunt said next.

“Well, just make sure you keep it friends because her family would never allow you to become more than that.”

I had no clue what she what talking about, so I asked why. The wind had already been taken from my sails and the conversation that ensued twisted my gut into knots. My aunt explained that the girl’s family was Serbian and they belonged to the Serbian Orthodox Church. I hadn’t even known what a Serb was up until then, but I’d had Greek friends since childhood and therefore assumed that the Serbian Orthodox Church must be similar to their Greek Orthodox Church. Okay, fair enough, but that didn’t explain why Agnes couldn’t be my girlfriend. She couldn’t be my girlfriend because of her religion? Why not? I’d had a non-Catholic girlfriend before (my interest in girls started very early) with no issues.

Well let me tell you, the answers to my first questions may have unsettled me, but my aunt’s answers to that last one positively enraged me. Like the Greek, Serb culture is intertwined with their church and to keep that, they tend to marry within their own nationality and religion. I had naively assumed that religion was supposed to bring people together. You know, love thy neighbor and all that good stuff. But here it was, dividing people, just as it has done through the ages. The very idea that I could be declared off limits to a young lady because I was Italian and Catholic floored me.

And from that point, my opinions on religion — not just my own but religion in general — was forever changed. I began to question everything and the more I questioned, the farther I distanced myself. By the time I was halfway through college, I had become a professed agnostic. Not the most welcome thing to be at a Jesuit university, but there I was. And while I was still very spiritual at that point, by choice I was not practicing any religion.

During my last year of undergraduate study, something unusual happened. I became involved with a young lady named Karen, whom I’d known since the start of my freshman year. We had never dated each other nor shown the least inclination to do so. But the circles in which we ran intersected from time to time and on one magic night, something happened that would change the course of history for both of us: I kissed her.

I couldn’t tell you why I did it. I’m not sure I know now. We were sitting in a neighborhood bar frequented by students who lived nearby. We were there with a group of friends, not as a couple, but found ourselves sitting together after everyone else had left the table to play pool, load the jukebox, talk to other patrons, etc. I have no idea what we’d been talking about. I know there was a pause in the conversation and during that pause, I leaned forward and kissed her. Something I cannot define moved me to act in that moment. That’s all I know.

I froze, realizing what I’d just done and not knowing what to expect in response. Karen looked at me and without batting an eye, said, “Oh, come on, you can do better than that.”

I felt like I had slipped in to a dream sequence but not being one to ignore such a challenge, I did indeed try to do better. Apparently I did alright that second time because we continued on from there. By the end of that evening, I went home with my mind swimming in a whole new sea of possibilities. There was only one problem: That young lady was already engaged to another and everybody knew it, including me.

What the hell had I been thinking! We barely knew each other! She was scheduled to be married to another guy! Anybody else in his right mind would have run like hell, had he been foolhardy enough to do what I’d done. But no. I saw her again. And again. And again. The very idea scared the living crap out of her at first. She literally ran away from me the day after that first kiss, as soon as I gave credence to doing anything more than forgetting that kiss had even happened. But I ran out after her and a few blocks later, as soon as I realized she could run faster and farther than me, I begged her to stop running and come back.

Had she kept going, that would have been the end of it then and there. Remember, we still didn’t know much about each other at that point, so going our separate ways shouldn’t have been a very difficult thing to do. But that’s not what happened. She stopped running. She walked back to me. Why? I can only suggest that we both saw something in each other from which we could not run, no matter how utterly wrong moving forward may have seemed to anyone else.

We continued talking. We started going places together. Hanging out together. Spending more and more time together in an effort to discover everything we possibly could about each other. Our relationship grew in all directions, at an astounding pace. At some point, she broke her engagement off with the other guy. That’s right, this lady walked away from a sure thing to take a chance on nothing but the strength of a possibility that we might have a future together.

Most people don’t know this part of my story. There was surely no reason to brag about it. I don’t even think I told my parents about this. Not all of it, anyway. And believe me, I was hated for this. Not by everybody, not even by all that you would have expected to hate me. But by some. Her fiancée, for sure, although he and I never saw each other after what happened. My regular friends seemed to take it all in stride. Karen’s parents and grandparents seemed relieved that her engagement was off, and they were friendly to me from the first time we met, but I’m not certain they saw me as having been the catalyst for that broken engagement.

You want to know who really hated me? Karen’s roommate, who was also engaged at the time. As I came to understand it, my very existence threatened everything that was supposed to be a certainty in her life. She thought Karen was off her rocker and likely told her so. Me, I held no grudge against the roommate. I even attended her wedding. But I don’t know whether her opinion of me ever changed.

To Karen’s fiancée, her roommate, and others like them, I was absolutely the bad guy. What I did was wrong, against the rules, from the very beginning! Why would I even think about doing such a thing? Maybe because I saw past what was apparent on the surface. Maybe we had both been driven by the force of love before either of us had even realized it.

In the end, despite Karen not being Catholic, we did get married, almost three years after that kiss from nowhere. Whatever it was that drew us toward each other with so much force was in fact real and had driven us forward. The greatest possibility came to fruition and we are still married more than thirty-five years later. We produced and raised two children, who are now adults themselves. They would not exist today had I not done the wrong thing so many years ago. I know ours was not exactly a storybook marriage by any stretch of the imagination, but it has been beautiful nonetheless.

But please know this: What we have today was never a sure thing at face value. It was only a sure thing in the realm of possibilities. It is also the product of some wrongdoing. But despite all this, had we not done what we did, there would be no story to tell, no thirty-five-year marriage, and no two grownup kids.

Some theologians profess that God permits evil in this world in order to bring about a greater good. All I can say in this regard is that not everything is as it appears to be. Am I the bad guy? According to some, yes. Would I do it again? Yes. Everything that happened was supposed to happen. This I believe to be true.

Sometimes when the spirit moves us with such force, we’ve just got to go with it.

As always, thanks for hanging with me.