Judy

An image has haunted me all day. I meant to write about this incident weeks ago, but then December hit and everything crawled into that crazy holiday hole. As I have begun to crawl out this week, this memory is one of the things that has resurfaced.

I went shopping one night at Publix back in November. It was undoubtedly a moment of freedom in my day. Matt was home with a sleeping Karis, and I was free to go off by myself to shop (so fun! so exciting!). I had just arrived and was looking through the "buy one get one free" bins at the front of the store, when, out of no where, I heard a feeble voice address me.

"Ma'am? Ma'am? Could you please read me the numbers off this machine?"

I turned around to see who was talking to me and saw a man, probably in his 70's. He was scruffy-looking, and his speech was somewhat hard to understand, perhaps caused by a speech impediment. My first impression was that he was homeless.

"Sure," I replied. Feeling only slightly nervous (I'm not sure why), I read the numbers listed on the blood pressure machine.

"159 over 93," I said. He paused to think about it, and then asked me to repeat it two more times. He had some questions about what range these numbers fall into, and feeling a little unsure in my total and utter lack of medical knowledge, I simply read the labels explaining the different ranges. Turns out his blood pressure was a little high, I explained.

"Oh," he said. He stopped and stared off about 45 degrees to my left for a few brief moments, and I took note of the worn clothing, the jacket half off his body, probably from when he placed his arm in the blood pressure machine a few moments earlier. He had very few teeth, and his face hadn't had a chance meeting with a razor in months, it seemed.

"I'm legally blind," he started explaining to me, perhaps explaining why he needed help reading the machine. He then told me how he has been on a feeding tube for the last 3 years. As if he knew I was wondering what he was doing in a grocery store, he explained he was with his wife and she was shopping. Alone. The image of her shopping alone for food she would prepare for herself alone and eat alone seemed so sad to me.

"I'm so grateful. Life is so good," he said abruptly and then paused, giving me only a second to process his amazing outlook on life in the midst of what is clearly a life not easily lived.

"You know, I was born on the same day as somebody famous. You wanna know who?" He looked at me, honestly thinking I might guess who.

"Judy Garland was born the same day, same month as me. She's gone now," he told me with a mixture of pride, gratitude, and a little sadness on his face.

I wasn't sure how to respond to this onslaught of very personal and incredibly interesting information he was giving me in quick succession, so I just listened and offered "uh huhs" and "oh reallys?" at appropriate times in the conversation to show him I was listening and interested.

But just as quickly as the conversation began, he trailed off and eventually quit talking. I took my cue to continue on my way shopping and left him with a "have a good night" or "God bless" or something else that didn't seem quite enough. The whole interaction probably lasted less than two minutes. He shared so much in that little bit of time, and I wasn't sure how I should have responded.

So what's the image that's been haunting me all day? Well, part of it is the image of this man, in all his dirty and disheveled state, talking to me about gratitude. (Gulp). I wish I had half of his gratefulness. Honestly.

But what I can't shake is the image of two mothers, 70 something years ago, doubled over in labor pains. Each one anticipating meeting the new life in their belly. The fathers are undoubtedly standing very nearby. Anxious. Doting. Excited about a new child. One would give birth to a red-slippered movie star, and the other would give birth to a boy who, in his 70's, would ask a strange woman in the grocery store to read his numbers on the blood pressure machine, and, unknowingly, teach her about gratitude.

Two different moms. Two different babies. Two very different futures. Though, if either knew her child's fate, neither mother would be any less proud, I'm sure.