June 12, 2001 ~ Sometimes things work out just fine,
and sometimes they don't. Case in point... "Jimmy" (not his real name). I work for a weight loss organization. You've probably heard of them. Pretty good outfit, if I do say so myself. I lead a couple of meetings, where I stand up there and talk and listen and encourage, and smile as much as possible. Try hard to motivate folks to lose, lose, lose. Most of the members are very nice people, and I get pretty attached to them. Want them to do well. Care about their successes and their difficulties... just plain care about THEM.
So there's this fellow, Jimmy, who's done pretty well. He doesn't make it to every meeting, but when he does, we're always glad to see him. He helps me carry my supplies into the building. Holds the door open for me. Very gentlemanly, very kind, and he has the nicest smile. He ALWAYS seems to be smiling.
Yesterday, another member told me that Jimmy became ill last week, was rushed to the hospital, and it was there that they found the tumor... inoperable, fast-growing, and, they say... terminal. This seemingly healthy man has been given just weeks, possibly a few months, to live.
"Jimmy? Jimmy? But I just SAW him last week," I protested. Do you ever say that? When faced with the impossible, the incomprehensible, do you ever think that someone CAN'T be ill, or dying, or dead, or whatever outrageous thing has happened... because you've just SEEN the person? As if somehow that can protect them? When told that my brother had been killed in a car accident, this was the thought that kept circling round in my head... "He CAN'T be dead; I just talked with him last night." Can't, can't, can't.
Just a few weeks ago, Jimmy stood beside me at our meeting and smiled his trademark smile as we mugged for the camera. That photo appeared in a local paper. Last night I dug out that newspaper and stared at the photo, looking for some sign, some hint of what was already lurking there, but I saw nothing. He looked awfully healthy to me. He was working on losing weight, he walked more miles than people half his age, and he always seemed so cheerful and happy. And yet. And yet... the tumor was already present, a time bomb, just ticking away.
I don't expect he will be at tomorrow's meeting. I can carry my own boxes, I guess. And I can certainly open my own doors. But Jimmy's smile... I'll sure miss that.
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