By Patsy Kelly
Some of us who grieve find ourselves living in a land called “Lost.” It isn’t where we want to live, not our choice. We don’t belong; yet we know this is our new residence, for a while. Living in Lost is akin to being in the center of a cyclone. Should I place something down, it is likely to be swallowed up, never to reappear. I’ll agree to an appointment or engagement. I’ll even note it on my calendar. But in Lost, that something vanishes, as though never planned. A change of geographic locations notwithstanding, I remain in the Land of Lost.
Regardless of the mayhem that prevails, there may be room for awe. Being unsought, unimagined, it is all the more wondrous. The following is one such event, true in every detail.
On a cold and blustery night (honestly) outside Boston, I lost my small, gray wallet. It was the perfect size to hold a driver’s license, credit cards and cash, yet fit inside a zippered coat pocket and remain safe (I thought). Desperate, I returned to my daughter’s apartment.
Sitting in the guest room with the cell phone, freezing my accounts, I heard my daughter shout, “It’s found! The wallet’s found!” Back in the front room, she explained how a friend recognized my photo on a Facebook message alerting the neighborhood to a lost wallet. In the next half-hour through back-and-forth messages, the holder of the wallet and I confirmed our legitimate identities and exchanged phone numbers.
In a weak voice, the gentleman relayed how, on his return from chemotherapy treatment, he stopped at a gas station and saw my wallet beside an ice machine. I was there earlier retrieving ice for my daughter’s knee swollen from surgery. We spoke briefly, establishing a degree of familiarity, whereupon he provided me with his address. He’d “leave the light on for me.”
Later, I drove in rain-turned-to-sleet. Lights were on, a Christmas tree in the window. Opening the door was a slender man wearing a stocking cap, a small dog at his heels. He approached my car, gaunt. Even by the dim light, his face was gray. But his most distinguishing feature was a protruding stomach. He greeted me, “I’m Anthony F.” I gave my name, erupting into gratitude. He interrupted me, “I have colon cancer spreading to my liver. I’m at the end. I told my wife, ‘I want to get this back to the right person.’”
It felt cheap in the face of his admission, but I was compelled to offer something in return. He refused. “I don’t want anything.” He opened his arms. We embraced. I drove back through pelting ice, feeling I had left the Land of Lost behind me.
Even in grief, there is room for kindness. This gentle man, my knight in shining sleet, found room for generosity. I, though lost, found room for gratitude. Though the grief may not be diminished, it may reside alongside wonder. For information about The Grief Group, send your email to griefgroupjax@gmail.com.
