(Based on a true story)
I knew the first time I saw him that it was more than cancer
that had broken his body.
His name was Michael.
I saw him in a room where chemotherapy is delivered six days
a week to about a dozen people. Sitting in the hard gray, high-backed chairs
wasn’t new to me. Every Monday for the
past two months I made the trip to this Cancer Center to have the profitable
poisons delivered through a port in my chest. From there the toxins would enter
my veins to begin another skirmish with the cancer that had made residence
inside my body.
That Monday was my fourth or fifth treatment; it is harder
to keep track of such things anymore. For Michael it was his first time.
I had already settled into my chair and the pre-meds were
traveling along the vessel byways when
this new stranger plopped down in the chair across from mine. He wore an old pair of dirty blue jeans, a
lime green sleeveless shirt with a faded logo for Mountain Dew. The words “Do
the Dew” had mostly worn away, now only professing, “o the ew”. It seemed
strangely appropriate.
On his feet he wore black work boots that had seen better
days; the steel protection toe revealed on the left boot attested to this.
Both arms had tattoos.
His right arm was conservative in the ink paintings; a braided rope
wrapped around his wrist. There was a word entwined within the rope but from my
position I could not read it. On his left arm he wore a magnificent sleeve
tattoo filled with brilliant colors.
I do not have any tattoos. My fifty-seven year old arms have
shied away from the artist’s ink. I have nothing against those that desire to
have their body become someone else’s canvas. I am an admirer of great art—and
what this young man wore on his arm was beyond great, it was a masterpiece.
Once again from my vantage point I could not see this entire
protoplasmic canvass. But over the next few weeks I would be able to learn more
of the story his tattoos would tell.
Beginning at the curve of his almost but not quite scrawny
shoulder was the image of great tiger, bearing his sharp teeth. If tattoos
included audio, you would have heard the beast roaring his authority. The eyes
of the tiger were a luminous gold, so realistic they looked as if they could be
plucked right off his arm. Behind the tiger, serving as the background canvass
were flames of orange and yellow, outlined heavily in charcoal black. This
apocalyptic image was the background for the three images on his arm.
Below the roaring tiger was a rose in full bloom. The artist
had combined a dazzling red with the same orange and yellow he had used as the
backdrop. In doing so the rose seemed to be on fire, and yet like Moses’
burning bush no harm came to the rose.
The traveling tattoo ended just an inch above the wrist.
This last image was a wise owl colored like none that have ever flown the night
skies. The artist’s love for orange, yellow and red and a tinge of charcoal
gray were blended together to create a color I have no name for. I can only
describe it as grand. The talons of this owl were not perched upon a twig, but
instead they gently held a stogie in its grasp. The cigar ring was gold colored
with the letter “M” placed carefully like diamond on a wedding ring.
Over the next few weeks I asked Michael numerous times about
his tattoo. I wanted to know the story it told. Michael would always laugh at
my inquiry and then say “I will one day, when we have more time”
He never did.
He ran out of time.
It is not my habit to speak with other patients when I am
experiencing the delights of chemotherapy. It is not that I want to be left
alone in my misery, but the majority of patients that are on the same schedule
as me are…older. It is my experience that the older someone is the more they
seem to want to share their miseries with anyone who will listen. Please don’t
color me without mercy or without compassion, for I truly try to be. But to mix
my own misery with someone else’s just does not fit well.
Michael was a talker. Within minutes of sitting down he
looked across the aisle at me. I was reading an e-book on my tablet.
He asked, “What are you playing, man.”
I looked up from the tablet, “I’m not. I’m reading.”
“Oh” was his only reply.
Michael looked around the room. He had the jerky movements
associated with someone who was hooked on drugs. Tremors, as he explored these
new surroundings, were noticeable. He seemed anxious, a trait rarely exhibited
in a room built to serve the inhabitants chemo drugs. Although at that moment
he had silenced his tongue, as the day progressed he talked excessively and
randomly.
He spotted one of the nurses returning to the room and
raised his right hand as if in grade school. Just one indistinguishable tattoo
on this arm, nothing to be considered. But what was clearly noticeable were the
track marks running down his arm; the harbinger of abuse.
The tracks formed a “T”. In the crook of his arm three red
circles surrounded by bruising, formed the cap of the “T”. Traveling down his
arm were five or six smaller circles. The bruising around these was lighter in
color, almost light maroon in appearance. I though these must be older. Each mark
I imagined, just as he tattoos, also had a story to tell.
Michael looked across the aisle, “You wondering about
these?” His east Texas accent made it sound like—“Ya wonering bout deez?”
He was pointing to the track marks; I was busy turning
red-faced.
“It’s okay, man. I don’t try to hide them anymore. In fact I
sorta hope they never go away. They remind of where I came from.”
His words somehow reduced the embarrassment I had just
moments before encountered. I shifted in my chair, searching for the right
words.
“It’s cool man,” he said, “You don’t gotta talk.” He smiled,
his teeth revealed what I had first suspected. They wore the decay of a drug
abuser.
Sometimes a little voice whispers in my ear, and in my
heart. I know there have been times when that voice belonged to God and other
times it came from something we call our conscious or inner-voice. I can’t tell
you where the voice originated that day. But I can tell what I heard—
“Talk to him!”
“I’m sorry,” I began, “Where did you come from? And where
are you going?”
“I came from a pretty dark place, man. You probably wouldn’t
want to hear about.”
He was wrong…I wanted to know.
He continued, “Where am I going? I am going to heaven man!”
He laughed.
This young man, who wore so many scars, sat up straight in
his chair and asked me, “Do you know Jesus?”
“For almost thirty years now.” I replied.
“Wow, man that is awesome.”
“What about you?” I asked. “How long have you known Jesus?”
My question was not just in response to his. I was curious
about track marks on the arm of a Believer.
“I’ve known Him for one day, man. Yesterday I walked into a
church for the first time since I was a kid.”
Over the next three and a half hours I would learn that
shortly before he walked into a church and surrendered his life to Jesus Christ
he had attended a Narcotics Anonymous meeting at the emphatic request of his
sister. She had been clean for more than three years and knew the only way out
was to look up. After the N.A. meeting they had breakfast at an I.H.O.P.
restaurant just a few blocks away from the church his sister attended. Feeding
her brother a real meal was the opportunity and leverage to urge him to finish
what he had begun that morning by going to church with her.
Michael confessed to me that he didn’t really want to do
that. His idea of religion was that churches were filled every Sunday with
hypocrites that would look down on someone like him. He told me that as they
walked to the church he wanted to “bolt” about every ten feet. But his sister
kept talking to him, telling him that not a single person in this church had
ever looked down upon her. That they had stood by her during the darkest hours
of her life. They had been there when she backslid, returning to the blackness
of her own addiction. They had stood by her side when she hit rock bottom for
the second time in her life.
“Did you finally hit rock bottom?” I asked him.
“No man, the people think that you have to hit rock bottom
before you can stop using, are wrong. That’s BS! That’s an excuse not to find
help. Because they haven’t felt the sharp edges of the stones they think that
they don’t have to stop sucking down Norco or snorting Cracker Jack. It’s BS
man.” His agitation was a little unsettling.
Michael continued, “I ain’t bullshitting you man. I could
see the bottom. I could touch the rocks with my toes. But I never hit the
bottom. I never will now.” He smiled again.
I saw in Michael a raw intelligence that I wouldn’t have
thought was possible in someone who had abused drugs. The drugs that he invited
into his life will destroy brain cells without concern for the proprietor.
Their destruction leads to a weakened system that can no longer say “no”.
Our conversation that day and the next chemo-day included
stories of his addiction, talk about sports, tales of his tattoos and
questions. Many questions.
Michael’s understanding of scripture, of Jesus, of religion
and of God was innocent and elementary. He often would change subjects in
midstream and ask me a question about God.
He talked. I listened. He questioned. I answered.
I learned.
The following week Michael was already planted in a chair
when I arrived. Sitting next to him in a hard-backed chair was a young woman.
She was dressed casually in a light yellow sun dress. She was pretty, with long
flowing golden blond hair. Her complexion was that of someone who spends time outside.
She looked tired. She is Michael’s sister. Her name is Chelsea.
Michael smiled when he saw me walking down the path that is
formed by the chemo-chairs. The seat across from him was occupied by another
chemo patient, so I took the chair next to him.
He introduced me to his sister. His voiced reflected the
same tiredness that was on his sister’s face. This pair of siblings looked worn
down.
The nurse arrived to prep for my treatment, Michael and his
sister sat silently, looking at nothing.
It only takes a few minutes to get the chemo-engine running.
The nurse patted me on the head and turned in route to her next patient.
I looked over at Michael and asked him how he was doing...
“Not good.”
It took a while that morning for Michael and Chelsea to tell
me the latest chapter in their story.
Michael was going through withdrawals. Years of abuse was
refusing to leave quietly. Chelsea had tried to find a rehab center that would
take Michael. But there was no money, no insurance. Michael hadn’t held a steady
job in over two years. I learned that he had lived by stealing, by cutting the
drugs he purchased and re-selling them as pure. More than once the buyer had
returned to beat Michael into a surrendering a refund or just out of a
maddening revenge emanating from their own lack of euphoria.
Almost three months ago Michael moved into a weekly rent
apartment building after landing a job as a dishwasher in a local honky-tonk.
The apartment building had once been the home of hard working citizens who paid
their rent each month and on time. Years of decay, not only of the building but
of the neighborhood, had changed the profile of local denizens. Most were poor,
jobless and always one step away from being homeless. Many of them abused the
same drugs that Michael did…a united community. The truth was that any of them
would kill you just as quickly as they would share a joint with you.
Michael provided just a glimpse into the dark place he had
come from, stopping short of providing complete details. I did ask him if he
had spoken to his oncologist about getting help. He said they, the “We care
People” were “working on it”.
Chelsea changed subjects, typically a task delivered by
Michael.
“Michael told me that you helped him understand some of
Scriptures he was struggling with. I appreciate that. He doesn’t talk to me
about God…”
Michael interrupted, “That’s the way it used to be sis. You
brought me to your church, even when you knew I didn’t want to go. I will talk
to you about God. I will talk to anybody about God. I just don’t how to go
beyond telling someone that I love Him.”
“Sometimes that is enough.” Chelsea smiled, taking her
brother’s hand.
For the nearly two hours we talked about God. Avoiding the
subject of withdrawals, rehab and the earthly
future he was facing. Michael had many questions about his walk with Christ and
where it would take him. Chelsea impressed me with her knowledge of the Bible.
Her love for Jesus Christ was on display each time she answered a question from
her brother.
Our conversation took an unexpected turn and suddenly we
were talking about Michael’s past. He told us a story that Chelsea had never
heard. (Of course I hadn’t either).
“You know I thought I
saw an angel once. I was so frickin high that the angel began to change. You
know like a Transformer. And then I thought it was God’s face I was seeing. It
scared me, man. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I thought
God was going to kill me right there in the alley. He was going to kill me
because I was stealing and getting annihilated all the time. I was ate up man,
God’s face was right there. I could have reached out and touched it, but I thought
my hand would frickin burn off or something. I knew I was bent bad, somewhere
inside my head I heard my own voice telling me that it ain’t real man, you’re
just screwed up. But I was scared, seeing God’s face was freaky, man. I started
crying like a little baby. And then I started to scream. I squeezed my eyes
shut, screaming for the face of God to go away. When I opened my eyes again the
face was gone. But in its place was the face of Trapper Jack. He was so close I
could feel his hot breath on my cheeks. It smelled like butterscotch. I looked
into his eyes and knew that he was coked up. I also knew that he was pissed. I
owed him a lot of jack for some of the crap I had bought from him. But I had
been hiding from him because I blew the profits on buying more shit for me.
Man, I couldn’t help it, I need to be high, I needed to go numb. Trapper Jack
stood up and I saw his foot heading right for my man parts. He kicked me hard
over and over. I thought I was going to die again right there in the alley. I was
crying again. Suddenly the kicking stopped. I looked up and Trapper Jack was
gone. From out of the darkness appeared three of his boys. They picked up where
Trapper left off. I didn’t know I could sober up that fast. I started counting
the hits. I was hoping that by counting I wouldn’t feel them. It didn’t work. I
blacked out. When I woke up I was in the County Hospital emergency room. That
was cool…I knew they had drugs.”
I sat there looking at Michael. I didn’t know what to say.
Chelsea was crying.
Michael’s treatment was finished before mine but they stayed
until the chair Michael had occupied was needed by another patient. Michael got
up and headed to the restroom, leaving Chelsea there alone. She told me she was
worried about Michael and the withdrawals that he suffered each night. The days
were better she told me, it seemed that if he kept busy that the pains were
less. She asked me for my phone number, “In case I don’t know what to do when
he is at his worse.”
I didn’t hesitate to give her my cell number, adding that
she could call anytime, day or night. We said a quick prayer that God would
take control of Michael’s life and ease the pain he was suffering.
Michael returned and we exchanged farewells.
I had no way of knowing that this would be last time I would
ever see this tattooed drug addict-born again Christian.
Day 28
I hate chemo-day. I just started feeling better after the
terrible side effects of the previous treatment. I knew that before the end of
the day” feeling better” will be nothing more than a faded memory. But today my
usual anxiety was replaced by anticipation. I looked forward to talking with
Michael; to hear how he was progressing in his recovery, how he was handling
the chemo treatments and how his walk with Christ was growing.
The waiting room was filled near capacity when I arrived at
the Cancer Center. I checked in and found one empty seat, sitting, waiting to
hear my name called. First would be the weekly blood draw, followed by a weigh
in and a conversation with the doctor. After the brief and mundane interview I
would enter the treatment area to begin another agonizing journey.
I looked around the waiting room to see if Michael had
arrived yet. No signs of him or his sister. I launched my weekly habit of
looking at the people in the room. I was careful not to stare as to make someone
uncomfortable. I have perfected the art of observation without the appearance
of observing. I thought about their stories. What cancer are they battling?
Many of those waiting were older. They had run past the average life span sign
many years ago. I always wondered if I would have their courage if my own
cancer had been delayed, arriving twenty years from now. Chemotherapy is an
awful experience. The “We care People” will try to motivate and convince you
that it won’t be as bad as what you have heard. Lying is part of their duties. I
thought these aged participants were either crazy or desperate.
I remember on the first day of treatment meeting the nurse
that would administer the chemo treatment. She belongs to the “We Care People”
club, yet she was different. Her name is Rosie; I have grown to admire her
abilities as a caretaker. I will never forget her words regarding the
treatment—
“This is going to suck
pretty badly. But you will be okay. It is my job to make sure you are.”
Blatant honesty! How refreshing.
Back in the waiting room I heard my name being called. At
the same moment my cell phone informed me that I had an incoming call. I didn’t
recognize the originating number on the
screen and almost slid the screen to ignore the call.
I did not.
I wish I had.
But denial has no resurrecting power.
“Hello”
It was Chelsea’s voice; I recognized the east Texas drawl
immediately.
“Hi. Can you talk?” She asked.
I spied the nurse who would begin my day by draining blood
from my arm standing in the doorway waiting for me.
I asked Chelsea if I could call her back in a few minutes. I
explained quickly that I was entering the torture chambers. She didn’t reply
right away. When she finally agreed I could hear the disappointment in her one
word— “Okay.” Then she was gone.
The few minutes turned into thirty minutes before I could
return Chelsea’s call. The doctor had dominated most of that time with good and
not so good news. Later the not so good news would pale in comparison to the
story I would hear from a phone snuggled up to my ear.
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket after settling into
the chair. The nurse poked my port marking the beginning of the four hour
poison drip. I hit the call back button; Chelsea answered after the first ring.
“I’m sorry it took so long to call you back. The center is
very busy today. What’s up?” I began the conversation.
Ten long seconds passed before she spoke, “It’s Michael.”
“What’s the matter
Chelsea? Is Michael okay?
Another long pause, longer than the first. I could hear her
breathing.
“He is…he is dead.” Her sobbing increased with such
intensity it seeped through speaker on my phone. I could feel her breathing, I
could taste her tears.
I let her cry before saying anything. I listened waiting to
hear her agony ease. It seemed as if it may never stop.
Suddenly it did stop, as quickly as it had come.
“He’s dead”, she repeated, “I don’t know what to do.”
An image exploded in my mind of Chelsea and Michael. Was she
with him now? Was he lying dead on the floor with his sister sitting next to
him? The vision developed slowly like an old Polaroid picture—Michael was lying on a carpeted floor. His
blood was soaking into the torn and ragged material of the cheap carpet. His
head had been beaten in by some thug Michael owed money to. Chelsea was sitting
on the floor, her shins folded underneath her legs, in a praying position. The
yellow sun dress she wore was slowly consuming the blood the carpet ignored.
This image was grossly skewed. That is not what happened.
But Michael was dead.
“Chelsea, I am so sorry. What happened?” I asked, trying to
conceal the tremble in my voice.
She began to speak.
“Twenty-eight days. It was twenty eight days ago that
Michael changed his life. All he spoke about yesterday was reaching the thirty
day mark. His N.A. meetings recognize these milestones. Thirty days isn’t a
long time…unless you are an addict in recovery. Then it is a lifetime.”
She stopped and began to sob again. I could only listen and
wait.
Again, she spoke.
“Yesterday evening there was an Eviction Notice on his door.
He was sixty days behind. He never told me. It was only three hundred dollars!
He didn’t tell me, I could have found the help. He didn’t tell me! I could have
helped, but he wouldn’t let me.”
More sobbing. More waiting.
“Early this morning the police were knocking on my door. I
saw them through the side window and I knew something was wrong. I knew it was
Michael. But I didn’t know he was dead.”
A short pause. No crying.
“The police told me that the landlord came to evict Michael
or collect the money. The Constable was with the landlord. When Michael didn’t
respond to them knocking loudly on the door…”
A longer pause. Silent crying, but I could hear the tears
making a pathway down her cheeks.
“They opened the door. Michael was lying on the floor with a
broken syringe sticking out of the rose tattoo on his arm. He had overdosed. He
was dead.”
“I am so sorry Chelsea.” I didn’t bother to try and hide my
own emotions this time.
“There was a note” She told me.
Suicide?
I didn’t want to ask, “What did it say?” I asked anyway.
“There were two words—‘I can’t’.” Chelsea cried.
I waited.
“Jim, there was more.”
I waited.
“He wrote a question for you.”
Silence.
“Jim, do I still get
to go home?” I could tell she was reading the note from memory.
“Does he?” she asked.
I felt the hot tears running down my own cheeks. I could
taste their bitterness on my tongue. I did not sob, I cried silently in a room
that was almost full with people that may soon die.
She waited.
I cried. My shirt was stained by the endless stream of
tears.
Then the Lord infused me; not with chemicals but with His
promise.
I looked across the aisle at the only empty chair in the
room. Michael’s chair.
I spoke.
“Jesus said, ‘And I
give unto them eternal life; and they shall never parish, neither shall any man
pluck them out of my hand.’ Chelsea, Michael is in His hand. And he shall never parish.”
“Thank you. My brother is dead, Jim. I don’t understand. He was trying so hard.”
“Twenty eight days was not long for you and Michael. But it
was long enough for God to call Michael home. He has plans for Michael, great
plans. God knew Michael was finished here. He allows everything to happen…even
when we make bad choices, wrong decisions. I think even the decision to die.”
“Michael liked you Jim. So do I. God brought you into our
lives at the right time. I needed to call you and tell you what happened and to
thank you.”
The call disconnected. I never saw Chelsea or Michael again.
I realize I don’t even know their last name.
Michael’s dead.
28 days.
Dear God, please let me be right.
Amen
"Michael's Chair" can be found with other short stories of faith athttps://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Faith-other-short-stories-ebook/dp/B00YX3T876#nav-subnav
