Better Angels
Nothing’s very funny in the middle of a pandemic. I’m currently in quarantine with my husband, two grown sons (yep, still here), and our cognitively impaired dog. She’s 15 and has canine Alzheimers, she can’t remember where the front door is, but I’m pretty sure even she could remember “Person, Woman, Man, Camera, TV.” All of this is my way of explaining why I haven’t been writing. It’s certainly not due to the copious amounts of wine, M&M’s and streaming media I’ve been consuming during quarantine. Nope, no way!
Like many Americans, I feel a bit overwhelmed during these “unprecedented” times. The toxic political landscape, economic spiral, global pandemic, and systemic racism — well, it can make a gal feel pretty cranky and more than a little helpless. So if your world is completely jacked up, unhinged, cast adrift in a sea of chaos, perhaps you’ll feel better reading this. Or maybe you’ll just laugh at my expense; either way, you might forget your troubles for a moment, and a moment of peace is a valuable commodity these days.
This is a story about our better angels. Wait! Hear me out. I know it sounds like I’m getting all woo-woo or about to preach the good word to you, but I promise no proselytizing or bible thumping (and the only good word I know in the English language is “vodka”). This story is an equal opportunity message for believers and nonbelievers alike. It’s about faith in humanity’s better nature or our “better angels.” I have my own personal angel. I DO! She showed up one morning smack in the middle of my podiatrist’s office. No sh*t.
Twenty-four months ago, my mother lay dying from congestive heart failure in her assisted living facility. During her last week, as Mom drifted in and out of reality, I started getting bizarre calls from her claiming she was having a big party, wondering where I was. Or that she was with a bunch of long-dead relatives waiting for me at our beach house. That one kind of creeped me out. My mother always had a flair for the dramatic, but these weren’t tall tales, these were end of life delusions, and they were becoming more frequent.
I didn’t leave Mom’s side much during those last weeks, and when I did, it was because I had no other choice. Case in point; I’d injured my foot and had to see a specialist. I was in his waiting room, suffering through the muzak rendition of “Girl from Ipanema” when my cell phone rang. It was my sister, hysterical over another bizarre phone call from our mom. Instantly my palms began to sweat.
“Just don’t answer the goddamn phone for now,” I growled through clenched teeth, then quickly hung up and called Mom’s nurse. I’m sure I looked like a tic about to pop as I hobbled around the tiny waiting room in my ridiculous medical boot. The receptionist threw me some side-eye and slowly slid her privacy window shut. A quick peek at my Fitbit confirmed my blood pressure was (again) spiking. If the stress continued at this rate, I’d beat my mom to the pearly gates.
Now my reference to the pearly gates in no way is a religious plug. My spiritual upbringing was pretty messy. My Dad was a Methodist. My grandmother took me to her Christian Science church (don’t get me started). At age 14, I frequented the Baptist church, where parishioners all “talked in tongues.” But not being bi-lingual, I felt a little left out. I regularly attended the Presbyterian church in our neighborhood, and in high school, I was “born again.” As a result of this odd mix, nothing stuck, I’m not married to any particular ideology. Sorry, Mary Baker Eddy (that one goes out to the CS crowd).
When I met my husband, Mark, at the University of Oregon, I had my first introduction to philosophy. My mind was expanding, horizons broadening, and I was falling in love all at once. Maybe it was the cheap Cavalier liebfraumilch or the moonlight glinting off the fake wood paneling on Mark’s ‘73 Pinto wagon, but Sartre, Nietzsche, and Descartes made a lot more sense to me than any religious dogma ever had.
All of that aside, I do have faith in a higher power. And at that moment, sitting on the threadbare furniture at my podiatrist’s office (he’s a good doctor, but cheap), I desperately needed that higher power.
Closing my eyes, I bowed my head and silently prayed, “Please, please keep me healthy so I can be there for Mom, give me the strength to help her.” Just as I finished my prayer, the waiting room door swung open, and a beautiful blonde woman, in her mid-fifties walked in. I watched her glide to the front desk and exchanged a few words with the receptionist. As she turned toward me, her eyes grew wide. “Pam — is that you?” she said, as she rushed forward and clasped my hands in hers. I knew this woman. It was none other than Susan B, a former classmate from Raleigh Park Elementary School.
I hadn’t seen Susan in almost 40 years, since high school, but immediately recognized her dazzling smile. She hadn’t changed much, still beautiful, fit and athletic, looking every bit as if she’d just breezed in from the golf course.
Susan settled into the seat next to mine, and we proceeded to have an incredibly in-depth conversation. Under normal circumstances, I’d never have opened up about my problems, but there was something about Susan that made me want to spill. And boy, I needed to talk. For the next twenty minutes, I spoke of my mother’s end-of-life journey, and completely bared my soul.
Susan never broke eye contact, never looked at her watch, or tried to change the subject. She remained present and focused. Everything else in the room; the receptionist, the bad muzak, the threadbare office furniture all faded into the background. It was just Susan and me. It was almost as if listening to my story was her sole reason for being there. My heart rate began to slow, and the knots in my shoulders loosened as I unburdened myself.
Then it was Susan’s turn to share her personal story of loss. She explained what I could expect in the coming days as my mother inched closer to death. She told me exactly what to do, say, and how to help my mother as her life came to an end. Susan told me precisely what I needed to hear. She had unknowingly answered my prayer.
A door opened across the room, and someone called my name. The spell was broken, our time together at an end. We stood and hugged. Susan reassured me it would all work out — and I believed her.
I couldn’t get over the serendipitous way we’d met. At the exact moment, I was praying for guidance and strength, a woman I hadn’t seen in close to 40 years just happened to stroll into my doctor’s office to deliver the exact message I needed to hear. Offering me the tools and strength that would carry me through the ordeal ahead. It was too coincidental and strange.
And then a thought struck me; maybe my chance meeting with Susan wasn’t chance at all. Perhaps Susan was an angel on earth sent to help me. Not one with wings and a harp, more like…a guiding force. But was my encounter with Susan a genuinely mystical experience or merely a manifestation of my yearning for help?
I’ve heard it said that God employs his angels here on earth to carry out his work. Call it divine intervention, serendipity, providence, chance, or metaphysics. But just maybe it was a higher power, answering my prayer, working through Susan to offer me strength, sending an “angel” to guide me.
My point is (and I do have one) perhaps we’re all capable of being angels deployed in times of crisis. You’re probably thinking, “Hey, lady, I’m no angel!” And perhaps you’re not in the traditional sense, but by shining your light on others, you might help someone unexpectedly, thereby becoming someone’s “personal angel.”
The simple act of being present for someone could have a tremendous impact — perhaps even a domino effect where that compassion is paid forward to countless others. And let’s face it, there’s no shortage of folks in need of TLC at the moment. We don’t need to look far, maybe a family member or neighbor needs you to take them by the hand (sanitize first) and shout through your face mask, “I’m here, how can I help?”
If we all tried that, maybe we could cut through the murky anger and fatigue we’re feeling. But we can’t fix everything at once, so let’s start small. Begin in your own backyard and make a positive impact on someone close to you. Put down your phone, close Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, and take a moment to really connect with another human being.
To this day, Susan has no idea that she was my very own personal angel. I’m sure she never gave our meeting a second thought. All she knows is that one day she ran into a childhood friend at the podiatrist’s office. But I’ve kept her words in my heart ever since. Susan’s advice saw me through one of the darkest moments of my life, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.
Life’s funny like that. You can turn a corner and find someone in your path you didn’t expect, and you might lift them up with a mere word or two. Never knowing that for one brief moment, you were acting as someone’s better angel. And by opening your heart, you might just earn your wings.
“We are all like one-winged angels. It is only when we help each other that we can fly.” ~ Luciano De Crescenzo
