This morning at the Cancer Center, I met an older man who has to catch the bus to get to his chemotherapy treatments. My use of the phrase "has to catch the bus" indicates my level of privilege. I feel uncomfortable pointing the following things out:
To catch a bus in this town of Greensboro, N.C., one must do a lot of walking. One must walk to the nearest bus stop. And one must walk from the drop off to one's destination. Often times, this is a significant distance. People who ride the bus are completely acclimated to this degree of walking and inconvenience. People who ride in cars often are not.
Additionally, to ride a bus in this town of Greensboro, N.C., one must plan ahead and allow roughly 45 minutes to an hour in order to get from point A to point B. This time sitting on the bus is a good time to catch a snooze, to read a book, to play a game of Sudoku. However, when one is feeling poorly, every jolt on the bus is unbearable, as is every loud voice, every bad smell.
Chemotherapy is an intense process. It can leave one feeling weak, nauseous, dizzy or faint. I did not go through chemotherapy when I went through cancer though I did a round that lasted 8 weeks after being diagnosed with ITP. It was fairly mild compared to the treatments given to most people. Even still, I was tired at the completion of each session, which lasted roughly four hours each. My head felt funny afterwards. I lived relatively close to the Cancer Center so I only had to endure a ten minute drive home. Upon my arrival home, I immediately crashed.
So, you understand now that I am a person of privilege. I did not have to catch the bus to my chemo treatments. I had it easy.
The older gentleman who has to catch the bus to his chemotherapy treatments spoke to me at length about strange experiences he's had with death. He told me about a man whom everyone called "Stingy Jim." He was so stingy, the man told me, that he only put a quarter in the collection plate at church. "A quarter!" he emphasized.
One day, Stingy Jim walked into the liquor house, which is what they called bars back in the day. Everyone was sitting around drinking or waiting to get a drink when Stingy told the proprietor to serve the house a round of drinks on him. "Yes," Stingy said. "I reckon I'll buy all y'all a drink now. No telling when I'll get to again."
Everyone was flabbergasted. Never had Stingy done anything like that. Everyone sat back and enjoyed their drinks until they heard the screech of a truck's tires. A tractor trailer had ground itself to a halt right outside the liquor house. A white man with a red beard came running out of the truck saying "He ran right out in front of me! I couldn't stop in time!" Everybody looked around to see who had been hit but they couldn't find a body. They looked all through the bushes by the road until somebody found a penny loafer with a tassel on it. It was Stingy's shoe. Stingy used to put a dime in his loafers rather than a penny.
The story of Stingy was interrupted by the nurse who brought my CBC results to me. I looked at the paper, looked back and the man and said, "It's only numbers." But the spell of enchantment had been broken. The story was left unfinished. The energy had already shifted to What's Next On My Agenda? Oh yes, get ready for work.
I asked the man his name and told him mine. I shook his hand and looked into his eyes, which tried very hard to conceal the fear he was experiencing. I told him I hope things go well for him and to keep on kicking. This felt completely inadequate. As I walked away from him and out into the cold spring rain, I said a prayer in my heart for the man, knowing full well we will all end up like Stingy someday. How and when is anybody's guess.
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