I’m just a little bit crazy about neighborhood Christmas lights and decorations. And somehow, I’ve managed to parlay this obsession into a nearly nightly holiday ritual. My Beloved and I, fueled by coffee, pile in the car and set off on our drive-by quest for Christmas magic.
We were driving home from this jingle bell jaunt on Saturday night when we met him. As we turned onto our street, he was staggering across the road, his cane barely keeping him upright. His grocery bag had been dropped in the middle of the road. We swerved to avoid hitting him. As we came to a stop, I rolled down the window.
"Sir, do you need some help?"
By that time, he’d stumbled across the street and was leaning precariously against the hood of a parked truck. His face ashen, his hair disheveled, he just stared at me and gasped, "No, I’m okay."
He clearly wasn’t. I hesitated.
"Can I get that bag for you?"
"No, that’s okay," he breathed, feebly.
I hesitated again. Our car was idling in the on-coming traffic lane.
"Well, why don’t I just get that for you? You stay there."
He just stared again and I jumped from the car to retrieve the bag. As I dashed across the lane towards him, he crumpled to the ground, his cane clattering after him. And in that flashing moment as he fell, I panicked: "What if he’s having a heart attack? What if he’s having a stroke? What if he’s not breathing? Do I know what to do? And can I do it?" Scared out of my wits, I was sure my limited knowledge wouldn’t meet his needs. My husband pulled the car to the side of the street and ran towards me. It was then of all moments that I remembered neither of us had our cell phones. I couldn’t believe it.
"Call 911!" MB ran to the nearest house and started scaring neighbors.
I leapt towards the man on the ground, certain he was dead. Dropping to my knees beside him, I stared into his face. He was conscious, moaning. I grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse. I’m not sure whose heart was beating faster.
"Sir, are you with me?"
"Yeah. I’m here. I don’t know what happened. I just got dizzy."
I asked him if he was having chest pain. He said no.
I knelt there with my hand on his. "What’s your name?" I asked. I noticed the tips of his fingers had been amputated.
"Bill."
"Well, Bill, we’re calling 911. We’re going to have someone check you out."
He lodged a mild protest, but I pressed him, saying, "Well, I think there’s a reason you fell, Bill. Why don’t we let the experts make sure you’re okay? They’ll be here any minute."
And, just then, of course, My Beloved and Kind Neighbor Jeff ran up and announced that 911 had them on hold. Bill smiled a bit at this. "What a surprise," he managed. Realizing the wait would be a little longer than "any minute," Kind Neighbor Jeff retreated to get Bill a blanket, MB took some newspaper and fashioned a pillow, and I gently rearranged his legs into a more comfortable position. As I did so, I noticed his orthopedic shoes and wondered if his feet were as compromised as his hands.
He lay there, we sat there, and I chided him, "Well, Bill, you sure have an interesting approach to meeting your neighbors."
"Yeah," he chuckled.
MB asked, "When was the last time you ate, Bill?"
"I had breakfast …. yesterday. Maybe I need to rethink that."
We agreed. And as we continued our inquiries, we learned he had myriad medical problems requiring numerous medications. Silent prayers for him began flooding my heart.
"Is there anyone we can call for you? Any family nearby?"
"No, there’s no one. I live alone."
The ground was shiveringly cold. Sitting there, I had the nagging feeling that I wasn’t doing enough, that even with a blanket he must be far too cold, that maybe it hurt him when I moved his legs, that maybe he didn’t want my hand on his. I wanted to reassure him that he was in good hands, but he was just in my hands.
His forgotten grocery bag lay next to me. Peeking inside, I noticed some beer. Based on the situation, it would have been easy to make assumptions. But Bill did not smell of alcohol. He talked about the homeless and their camps in the nearby canyons. Without saying it, his dignity was pleading this clear point: "I am not homeless." As he lay there waiting, he spoke repeatedly of his embarrassment. And in that moment, my anxious heart did not know how to assuage his sense of indignity.
Finally, help arrived. Lots of help. Questions were fired in all directions. At one point, Kind Neighbor Jeff referred to Bill as an "older" gentleman.
Bill winced. "Older?"
"But with a youthful glow," I countered.
As the paramedics picked him up and loaded him onto the gurney, I heard one of them say, too loudly, "Oh, he’s also incontinent." I cringed, but involuntarily, my glance fell to the ground where Bill had lain. It was wet. I hadn’t known. None of us had. I knew the paramedics were just doing their job, but I wished — how I wished — they could have whispered. As we waved goodbye, MB promised to take good care of the beer. Bill responded, "You’d better. I’ll be coming for it."
This is lengthy, I know, but I relate the story because, since it happened, I’ve been mulling over what it means to be a good Samaritan. Mostly, I’ve been asking myself what now? What do I do now? I mean, I know approximately where he lives. I could go bang on some doors to find him. My heart feels a tug towards this. But more important than my heart are these questions: What does Bill want? And what does Bill need?
During our talk, I found myself making little life prescriptions for him. He said he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day. Assuming hunger was an issue, I began planning the nice bag of groceries I’d take to him. But then I considered. Why is he skipping meals? Is it because he just isn’t hungry? because he isn’t feeling well? because he forgets? or is it because he doesn’t have enough food? He mentioned he had no family nearby, that he lived alone. Assuming loneliness was an issue, I began planning regular visits to see him. But then I considered again. What if a visit would be an intrusion to him? What if he likes his privacy?
I might perceive he has needs, but are they his actual needs or even his perceived needs? I shouldn’t assume — in the name of compassion — that my perceptions and his needs are identical. Because once I assume that and act on it, compassion crumbles, doesn’t it? Let’s say I take him some groceries, for instance, and he doesn’t actually want or need them. Now I’ve only left him with the burden of acting grateful when, perhaps, he’s just feeling embarrassed. In that instance, what I dress up as compassion is actually self-serving arrogance in disguise.
But there is another thing to consider …. in the "part 2" that I’ve just realized this very long post needs ….
