Help from Beyond, in Troubled Times
A VERY TRUE STORY - to the best of my recollection
“You must do the thing you think you cannot do,” Eleanor Roosevelt
The above quote has inspired and motivated me for most of my life. It was lovingly needlepointed for me by my wife Emily during the 1980’s. Though the framed artwork did not survive our move to Wisconsin five years ago, its message has been especially poignant to me since Emily’s March 3rd “passing.”
Within ten days of her taking leave of her cancer ridden body, I was on-line searching for a cruise to take me away from this home and the ever-present reminders of her absence. We had both loved the ocean, the openness, the beaches and the escape from responsibilities. As a bonus, I could liberate some of her ashes in the types of places that always brought her joy. I looked forward to the opportunity to reminisce and spend the week on my oceanside balcony with my guitar and endlessly swirling thoughts.
So, on March nineteenth, with an almost perverse sense of relief, we headed due south to the port city of New Orleans. Emily’s straw hat rode shotgun, and both of our wedding rings clinked together on a braided chain around my neck. Twelve hours later, I walked into a Mexican Restaurant in Hernando, Mississippi. As I approached the “Hostess” sign, I encountered a man in his mid-eighties getting ready to leave, as his son went to retrieve their car. When our eyes met, he sent me a huge laugh-grin, “Did you just lose somebody?”
Half confused and half perturbed, I asked him - why would you say that? He responded with an indignant - “You’ve got it right there on your chest,” at which point I looked down and got my first good laugh in months. I explained that the t-shirt I was wearing actually had the letters RPI, which was short for Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute which my son attended in New York. I mentioned that I’d had that shirt for fifteen years and was pleased that someone had finally noticed it - giving me an opportunity to talk about one of my kids.
And then I shared that I actually did lose my wife a couple weeks ago. After a very sincere apology, he responded, “I lost my wife many years ago and I’m never getting over it.” Though those words left me with sadness, they were also a nuanced challenge.
Fast forward to Sunday, March 23rd. I’m on the 15th deck of the enormous Norwegian Cruise Line - “Getaway.” It’s late afternoon and I’m one of hundreds of spectators watching the shoreline of the Mississippi edge by. We were only two hours into our seven-day trip when two teenagers approached a sixtyish year-old guy leaning on the nearby railing. “Mom’s pretty sloshed, so we escorted her back to the room for a nap.” After a few words back and forth, the two guys headed off to explore.
I made some kind of a comment to tone down the awkwardness and within ten minutes, a conversation about parked barges along the shoreline, had turned into the sharing of our personal flying stories. He’d been an aviator for seven years and me, for half a century. We each found some solace there in our happy place.
Since this wasn’t my first cruise, I’d been braced for the possibility that the trip might actually worsen the foreign sense of loneliness which I now carried. There would be close to thirty-five-hundred guests packed into the 1100-foot-long ship and probably 99.9% of them would be in groups of friends, as couples, or in families. Here, within two hours, I was talking one on one with a stranger. Before we parted, we introduced ourselves, both of us “Marks.” Our encounter eased my mind a bit and the name-match got filed away as a welcome coincidence.
The first morning on the ship, I randomly threw on my sink-washed “RPI” shirt. As I entered the already crowded Garden Cafe Restaurant, a gentle rain clung to the large glass windows alongside endless rows of tables. This sprawling buffet, on both sides of the ship, would feed thousands of guests over the next few hours.
I can’t remember what I had to eat that morning, because those thoughts were dwarfed by what happened as I weaved my way through the tables to leave. A middle-aged couple were seated almost in my path when the pig-tailed guy in front of me inquired - “Are you a Rensselaer guy . . . I’m from New Jersey?”
I responded - I’m not, but my son went there. He looked curious so I continued - it’s ironic that you should ask. I explained that no one in fifteen years had ever commented on this shirt - until four days ago. I had just started to tell them about the elderly guy in Mississippi asking me if I’d just lost someone, when he abruptly stood up and gave me a seriously long bear hug. Somehow, he managed to get out the words - “I noticed you wearing the two rings around your neck. That’s the same thing that I did when my wife died.”
We commiserated for close to an hour that first day, with his partner leaving to give us some space. Though he was obviously still hurting from the tragic loss of his wife five years earlier, he dug deeply to learn about my situation, as he shared his. He also touched on some of the coping mechanisms which he’d found helpful. Before parting that day, he inquired, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to check in with you each day.” In retrospect, I think he was worried. He alone would know how tempting those low railings might be for a person who’d lost so much.
Even though he was there with his two teenage kids and lady friend, he did find time each day to find me and talk about Emily and my future, while he reminisced about his late wife and his. I will always remember him as an exceptionally fine human being, and his name was actually “Marc”.
Sunrises can certainly be awe-inspiring but, throw in a seriously elevated vantage point, a panoramic view, and add a looming storm and you’ve got a memorable gem. I had that and more the third morning of the cruise as I brushed elbows with a beautiful soul, who happened to be pretty as well.
With blue eyes and blond hair, she’d taken a vacant spot maybe twenty feet away from me, along the top deck railing. I made some initial comment which organically drifted toward a conversation about the sunrises at sea, the varied impacts of cruise ships, the little evidence of nature we’d seen out at sea. . . and the dolphins I wish she’d seen the day before. We talked about our kids including her teenagers who were onboard along with her husband. . . and that led to one more variant of the question - “are you here with family?”
As I started to explain my situation, she was inexplicably saddened. Being speechless, her glistening eyes turned toward the long-completed sunrise. I’d known this big-hearted woman for a mere half hour, and yet her response was not surprising. It wasn’t so much the words she’d spoken as the kindness and love she emanated then and over the next half hour.
Eventually my growling stomach told me it was time to depart so, hoping I would see her again, I introduced myself. She responded with a most gracious smile, “I’m Emily.” I shared that that was my late wife’s name, and the sameness was not lost on either of us.
Beautifully said and written as you usually do. Since I’ve been single all my life, I of course, have traveled by myself numerous times. At times I enjoy it even more than being with someone else because it opens up the opportunity for miracles. I believe God or Emily put those people in your path because there really is so much love in the world that we often are blind too.
So it’s no coincidence just beautiful miracles that you were blessed with.
Courageous, heartfelt, poignant, and a big dose of how it feels to be human.
Thanks, Mark.