Between Two Meetings
Room 722
The man’s voice was pleading
, insistent. Kind. Tinged with a note of urgency. Unavoidably loud.
“WHY DID YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF?
No response. Ten seconds went by. A full minute, maybe longer. Nothing. The cringing silence was broken only by the frequency and pitch of electronic beeps of a variety one can only experience in a hospital. Or a hyperactive construction site. It felt like I was being dragged down, unwillingly, into the depths of something unfathomably dark.
“YOU HAVE SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR, MR. WILLIAMS.”
The flimsy bed curtain between us didn’t do much to protect Mr. Williams from this most private of conversations, but at least he couldn’t see us – namely, me and his temporary roommate, my Dad, in Room 722.
Mr. Williams remained quiet. Was he upset? Reflective? Slow burn and about to go all Mount Vesuvius on us? Could this Mr. Williams even understand what his doctor was shouting at him? My father, a stoic New Englander of a certain generation, was unmoved. Not because he is unfeeling. Dad’s hearing, it seems, was even worse than Mr. Williams’.
“DO YOU STILL READ, MR. WILLIAMS? WHAT ABOUT YOUR PAINTING? WE CAN BRING IN SOME PAINT FOR YOU. WOULD YOU LIKE THAT?
“WHAT ABOUT YOUR FAMILY? ARE YOU CLOSE TO YOUR GRANDCHILDREN?
Right about here, a nurse came in to check Dad’s blood pressure. Ever the polite host, even lying in a hospital bed with an O2 hose up his nose, my Dad introduced me. But he called me “Richard.” (He has only been confusing my name with my brother’s for 50 years. The same way I can’t get my four daughters’ names right.) The nurse didn’t understand any of this, so when she called me Richard and I corrected her, she decided to make sure Dad was tracking.
“DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE, MR. HIGGINS?”
“I feel just fine, thanks.”
Let’s try this again.
“MR. HIGGINS, WHAT YEAR IS THIS?
“It’s 1980.”
Five seconds of jaw-dropping, deeply awkward silence (except for the beeps). Then, hysterical laughter. From my Dad. Then me, and eventually, the nurse. Sudden bright light from darkness. Meanwhile,
“MR. WILLIAMS. CANCER IS NOT A DEATH SENTENCE. EVEN AT YOUR AGE. YOUR LIFE CAN BE A GREAT LIFE. BUT YOU MUST FIND YOUR PURPOSE. YOU NEED PURPOSE!
My 91 year-old Dad has beaten back cancer twice, maybe three times now. I am not sure he would speak easily about his life’s purpose, but he has always put his family first. He has never been one to talk about his values, he lives them. His understated wit still makes him the funniest man in the room, especially to his adoring grandchildren. All five sent him texts and pictures during his hospitalization. One FaceTimed from college and another, the one closest to home, stayed with him for the better part of two days.
Purpose is life-giving. #lowandbhold