A year ago, on the plane headed to my 30th high school reunion in Seattle, I sat
next to an elderly couple, Edna and Bob, the both of whom were sporting
thick bi-focal glasses, neat slacks and sensible shoes. Edna’s hands
reminded me of my mothers, thin skinned and gentle with sculpted
arthritic knuckles. Edna and I got to talking and she asked me about
family. I told her about Calvin and his various challenges, the fact
that he can’t talk, can’t walk by himself, and is still in diapers, even
though he, at the time, was seven. Then I underscored for her his ongoing battle with
epilepsy.
She led into a story about a very close friend of hers who lived nearby in their Philadelphia suburb back in the 1950s. Her name was Bess. Bess was married to Bill and they had four boys and a girl all with names starting with the letter B.
Bess and Edna’s boys were in the same third grade class, which is how the two women met. They began frequenting a favorite diner called Robinhood, which served a couple of slices of bacon, two pieces of toast, a pair of eggs and a cup of coffee all for ninety-nine cents. Over their first breakfast they had a serious converstaion.
“I have something important to tell you that I’m not sure I should," Bess said to Edna, "Will you still be my friend if I tell you?”
As the conversation progressed Edna asked her friend whether she had grand mal or petit mal seizures, at which Bess’ jaw dropped open in complete astonishment, “You know this?” Bess explained how usually when telling people, they’d physically back off—pitch a shoulder away—and the friendship would never blossom, leaving Bess mistrustful, ashamed and dejected. But with Edna it was different.
Seated next to me Edna, reaching deep into her memory, told me how they’d find themselves in stitches over some funny thing and they’d laugh until tears streamed down their faces and their jaws ached. “She was my running partner," and then qualifying the statement, "We didn't actually run, but whenever I wanted to go somewhere she'd go with me." Then Edna described how at times, in the diner or the car, Bess would stop talking mid sentence, quiver for a minute or so, then pick up her sentence right where she had left off. “Did I just go off into twiggyland?” Edna confirmed and lectured, “Did you take your meds?” Bess hadn’t, and said she’d take them later. “No you won’t," Edna barked, “you’ll take them now.”
One night Bess’ husband called up. He asked to speak with Edna. He went on to tell her how much it meant to him that she looked after his wife when he was out of town all week long—every week—for work. It eased his mind, he said.
Although Bess moved away a couple of years later the two friends kept in touch over five decades. Bess died knowing that in Edna she had found the truest of friends.
Originally published 8.20.11.
Please share.
Give to cure epilepsy: http://www.calvinscure.com
She led into a story about a very close friend of hers who lived nearby in their Philadelphia suburb back in the 1950s. Her name was Bess. Bess was married to Bill and they had four boys and a girl all with names starting with the letter B.
Bess and Edna’s boys were in the same third grade class, which is how the two women met. They began frequenting a favorite diner called Robinhood, which served a couple of slices of bacon, two pieces of toast, a pair of eggs and a cup of coffee all for ninety-nine cents. Over their first breakfast they had a serious converstaion.
“I have something important to tell you that I’m not sure I should," Bess said to Edna, "Will you still be my friend if I tell you?”
“I don’t know ... lay
it on me,” Edna replied.
“Well,” Bess whispered, “I have this disease and it’s bad.”
“Is it leprosy?” Edna asked, perplexed.
“No.” Bess answered.
“Then I can handle it,” Edna
continued,
“I have epilepsy,” Bess said, shrinking in her chair.
“Well, it’s not
catching!” Edna countered in her friendly way.
As the conversation progressed Edna asked her friend whether she had grand mal or petit mal seizures, at which Bess’ jaw dropped open in complete astonishment, “You know this?” Bess explained how usually when telling people, they’d physically back off—pitch a shoulder away—and the friendship would never blossom, leaving Bess mistrustful, ashamed and dejected. But with Edna it was different.
Seated next to me Edna, reaching deep into her memory, told me how they’d find themselves in stitches over some funny thing and they’d laugh until tears streamed down their faces and their jaws ached. “She was my running partner," and then qualifying the statement, "We didn't actually run, but whenever I wanted to go somewhere she'd go with me." Then Edna described how at times, in the diner or the car, Bess would stop talking mid sentence, quiver for a minute or so, then pick up her sentence right where she had left off. “Did I just go off into twiggyland?” Edna confirmed and lectured, “Did you take your meds?” Bess hadn’t, and said she’d take them later. “No you won’t," Edna barked, “you’ll take them now.”
One night Bess’ husband called up. He asked to speak with Edna. He went on to tell her how much it meant to him that she looked after his wife when he was out of town all week long—every week—for work. It eased his mind, he said.
Although Bess moved away a couple of years later the two friends kept in touch over five decades. Bess died knowing that in Edna she had found the truest of friends.
Originally published 8.20.11.
Please share.
Give to cure epilepsy: http://www.calvinscure.com
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| photo by Michael Kolster |
I want to say that it's an incredible coincidence that you had this conversation on the plane, but what I really think is that there are no accidents -- that perhaps Edna was a part of what Vonnegut called your "karass."
ReplyDeleteEinstein wrote that coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous. I've always loved that quotation.
ReplyDelete