Homecoming at the Homeless Shelter

Absolutely unchanged.  That was the very good news that we received from my cardiologist yesterday about my SVA, the bulge in the wall of my aorta called a sinus of Valsalva aneurism.  Aneurisms sometimes rupture, and sometimes the result is fatal.  So nine months ago when my doctor discovered this bulge, my life changed radically.  The possibility of sudden death became real.  And with that, life became more real, too.  

You may have had the experience of cleaning something up to sell it.  Maybe it was a car, or a piece of furniture, or even a house.  When we know we’re not going to see it anymore, it is as if we see it clearly for the first time.  Memories come back to us; we realize how much a part of us it has been. All the more with life.  That first day, that first week, that first month . . . they were made up of discreet moments of awareness, really seeing Kathy, our kids, our grandkids.  A visit to Detroit made breakfasts with my old friends were deep experiences, my eyes soaking up their faces, my ears absorbing their voices, loving the humanity of them, loving their love.    

I started writing this blog, calling It Free Lemonade Stand, inspired as I was to take the lemons that this SVA seemed to be, sweeten them with the faith that is generally easy for me, and share with my family and friends that I was OK with the possibility of sudden death, that if I died quickly I would also have died happy and grateful.  I didn’t want people to say “poor John”; there was nothing poor about me.  Lou Gehrig’s farewell speech at Yankee Stadium came to mind: “Today-ay-ay, I consider myself-elf-elf, the luckiest man on the face of the earth-rth-rth.”

During the next three months, I was, as directed by my doctor, a slug, undergoing tests to get a better sense of this aneurism, to determine whether open-heart surgery was called for, so that I could resume a life of normal activity.  I continued to write every morning, amazed that the material kept coming, these essays becoming again and again experiences of discovery, of describing boards at my feet and discovering that they were a bridge, describing dark rectangles and discovering that they were windows. 

Two months ago, in final preparation to schedule surgery to open my chest and patch the bubble, my surgeon suggested that we get a second opinion from Mayo Clinic.  To my surprise the surgeon there said that the team that he consulted with would not operate, but would watch for any change.  He theorized that this bulge may have been as it is from birth, not changing since then, stable and not threatening to rupture. Best of all, he said that I had no restrictions on activity.  So for the last two months I have resumed my active lifestyle, including the heavy woodworking that I love, and working with the homeless at Goodwill Inn.  This Sunday Kathy and I will set up a booth at the annual Old Town Arts and Crafts Fair here in Traverse City, selling the bread boards I produced during my slug days, little things made from little boards.  40% of the proceeds will go to Goodwill Inn, to help men and women like Herbert.

I’d met Herbert on my first visit to Goodwill Inn, two months before the discovery of that aneurism.  He was in the “Goals Group” that I sat in on, so I’d have a better sense of how they work, so I’d start my own with a bit more awareness and sensitivity and capability.  Over the next two months, I’d see Herbert every Tuesday evening as I served dinner, and sometimes he’d come to my goals Group instead of his own.  I loved working there with the talented people who happened to be homeless, as talented as the college students I enjoyed for four decades at UDM.  And they loved me too, sad for me when they hear that I had to drop out, that I had heart problems, that I might have to face surgery.  Last night I was surprised to see Herbert’s face across the serving line at dinner.  It had been six months since I’d seen him, and a big smile came to my face as soon as I recognized him.  He smiled too, but his face turned instantly grave. 

He reached his big hand over the counter to take mine, and asked “Are you OK?”  I’d not realized that he was among those I’d left nine months ago, not knowing if I’d ever see him again.  We held hands for a long minute, while we exchanged looks and words of gratitude, his to me because I was OK, mine to him because he cared so much, after all these months.  In that long handshake at the Shelter, both of us were home.

 FreeLemonadeStand by John J. Daniels is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.