Me Too

When the shrill beeping of the wheelchair lift sounded, I was prepared for a longer wait but not the passenger who would board.

A couple rows back by a window, my view was skewed by the seat back. I caught glimpses of his shocker yellow high-tech wheelchair, a sharp contrast from the usual rickety buckets. He was almost jovial with the bus driver and fellow passenger who helped fold the seats up to make room. How bizarre, as most wheel chair bound on this 358 route scowl as they are pushed aboard by an equally weathered friend and stale alcohol.

Once resigned to a typical stop and go rhythmic bus ride home, I was now intrigued. This man glowed with such an incredible spirit, I had to pay attention. He scanned around the front of the bus, looking as if he would talk to someone, if they started a conversation. His blue eyes were bright. I felt myself being drawn in, peeking around the corner of the seat back to get a better view of his military style haircut, his muscular upper body and his missing legs.

I had to talk to him.

At the next stop, the woman sitting across from him got off. I scooted out and around and sat across from him "May I ask you a question?" He turned wobbily toward me, "Of course" as I asked him where he had been. "Afghanistan." His face was soft despite a deep three inch scar in his throat and some missing teeth. "How long ago did you lose your legs?"

For two questions in, I was feeling bold. I had had conversations with people who have an obvious "disability" who always said they would rather be asked than stared at. So, here I was asking because I sincerely wanted to know. And because I just couldn't stop myself.

He didn't seem bothered by my questions, telling me it was two years ago. We kept a constant eye contact. An instant connection. "So, you are probably just now really starting to feel better. Feeling healed." He considered this for a moment, "Yes. Yes I am." He looked as if he had almost just realized it in that moment.

The severity of his wounds meant he was shipped to Germany, then to the U.S. for the complicated surgeries. He explained that as he came back, his body was so weak and his mind overwhelmed. The hospital was a hard place to be for him and he "pushed hard to get out as soon as I could." It was too difficult to focus on getting better when constantly surrounded by chaos.

His glancing told me his stop was coming up. I didn't want him to leave.

Asking him what branch he had been in, his response of "Army" shook me a little. "My Dad was in the Army in Vietnam. A medic." He glowed in recognition, "Oh Infantry!" My eyes started to tear up and I had to look down, not able to squeak out that he had died almost a year ago. His hand appeared to shake mine and I took it, looking up to his shining face saying, "It was really nice to meet you."

Expressing the same, I added "Thank you for your service. I am really glad you are still here." He smiled, "Me too."

****

I couldn't breathe or bear to watch him leave. Tears were edging out of my eyes, snot seeping out of my nose. My stop was next and as I exited, the full body weeping sobs began.

Meeting that kind of spirit is a profound gift and it rocked me to my very core.