Thirty-five years ago a man trusted me enough to tell me his story. Now, I trust you enough to tell it to you. I break no confidence in sharing his story. In fact, the opposite probably is true. He would like you to know it. Or, at least the parts that I am going to tell you. But in order for me to share it with you, I have to tell you the story of how I came to have it. Stay with this outer story and you also will know the inner story.
My first job those many years ago was, as I see it, one part spiritual guide, which meant I did the talking, and another part listener, which meant someone else did the talking. I would learn that you can’t be good at the job with just one part. You can guide people only if you listen. To have one part without the other part would be like having a rose that had no smell. I tell you this important truth because I had my own learning curve. And the story I tell you helped to put me on that learning curve.
One afternoon an elderly man came into my office. He seemed, to use an overused word, to be a gentleman. His voice was gentle. His demeanor was gentle. He was without any agitation, which I attributed–rightly or wrongly–to his age. Newly commissioned as a spiritual guide, I was ready to dispense my guidance. With plenty of classroom credits to my name, but only twenty-seven years to my credit, I was about to learn a lesson that they didn’t teach me in the classroom. It is a lesson that only comes from life.
The gentle man sat in a chair across from mine and he began to tell me about his childhood. I was puzzled because most people who came to me started their conversation with a current problem. After all, that’s why–I thought–they were coming to my office. They wanted a problem resolved and they wanted me to guide them in finding a resolution. But as the kindly man spoke of his childhood, he mentioned no problems. Rather, he simply told me about when and where he was born, about his parents, who were good to him, as he said, and he spoke about the number of siblings he had. He made no mention of any sibling rivalry, so I assumed he wasn’t going to present a problem with the Biblical brother-hates-brother motif.
He seemed to enjoy telling me about his early childhood years, with a mix of memorable moments. I smiled, but I was at a loss as to why he was talking about something so long ago if it had nothing to do with the present. I’m assuming he couldn’t read the puzzled look on my face, or maybe he was too much of a gentleman to mention it. He stayed with his childhood years with no seeming desire to rush through them. But after a while, he moved into his adolescent years, with the same pace and pensiveness. Even with these years, he provided me with no specific problem that required my help.
Next, I heard about his interest in medicine and how he decided to go to college to study to be a doctor. He explained the sacrifice that those years of study required of him, both of finances and of time. Still, he did not seem regretful. He casually moved the time line from college to medical school, with no hurry, but with only a desire to share with me what those years were like for him. As I listened and as I looked at his gray hair and the wrinkles on his face, I wondered where this was going. One thing I realized. We still had a long ways to go.
As I said, he seemed in no rush as he moved from the medical school years to his marriage. He smiled as he told me how he met his wife, how he fell in love with her, and how he decided she was the one he was going to marry. I felt the love he had for her, so I was sure the marriage was not the problem. The two of them had married and he told me of the children they had. He may have expressed some regret for the times he missed with his wife and his children because of the demands of his practice. But he seemed to have made peace with it, accepting that it was the life of a doctor.
As the clock moved laboriously on the wall, at the same time I began to sense something different about this man who spoke to me of those years long past. I could not put a finger on or a name to my sense that something was a little off. He steadily held to this oral march of time, but I thought I could pick up a subtext. I can describe it only as the faintest sound, damn near silent, just within range of being audible, but frustratingly out of full range. Then, again, I wondered if it simply was my agitation at not knowing where this was going.
As I said, the man seemed not to detect my discomfort, and for someone known for not hiding my feelings, that seemed an accomplishment on my part. More likely, it was a kindness on his part. Not knowing what to do but sit in my chair and seeing no way to push him through his life story, I sat and waited. I knew the story had to end at some point–the present day–and I realized that there was no way to fast forward this tape.
Next, I heard him tell of his medical practice, of the joys that being a doctor brought to him, and of the good he hoped he had done as a doctor. I could not remember how much time had elapsed since he had walked into my office, but I was sure there was more time remaining before he would walk out. As I reflect back on my much younger self, I want to chide myself for my impatience. But I also know youth has little patience. Only a long life brings patience.
My guest spoke of his grandchildren and the good times they shared. I was sure he was a good grandfather because he just seemed to have the voice of a very nice man. Probably I was becoming more relaxed as he spoke of what he did as a grandfather–for two reasons. First, I knew he was bringing the conversation to the here and now. Second, I hadn’t heard a problem yet, so I assumed–at this point–there likely wasn’t going to be one. But, I must say, I also felt somewhat useless. After all, he hadn’t asked me to do anything. As you can see, I had not learned yet the value of listening.
Then, my doctor friend–and I guess I can call him a friend because he had shared a great deal with me–paused. It was a short pause, long enough, I suppose, for him to decide if he had forgotten anything important that he wanted to tell me, or enough of a pause for him to draw a breath before he brought me to his life in the here and now. I said nothing, because I felt I had nothing important to say, and I waited as he wrapped up the conversation.
He looked directly at me–and with no change in his voice, to speak of anyway–he told me why he had come to see me. Here, he used the briefest of explanations, as if all the work had been done in his earlier words and as though his remaining words were less important to him. Yet, what he said in those few words shook me to my soul. He explained that he had been diagnosed as having Alzheimer’s Disease. Although the symptoms were not pronounced enough to be detected by the casual observer, he also knew it was just a matter of time. He said as a doctor he knew what this meant for him, for his wife, for the time he had left.
At this point, at least for a moment, it was as if the doctor was speaking to me, not the man. He was clinical. He said the time would come soon enough when he could not eat without assistance, that his wife would have to lift a spoon to his mouth, and he would not recognize her as his wife of fifty plus years. He knew he would forget who she was, just as he would forget everything else about his life.
Then, that man with so many years behind me, looked at me, who had so many years ahead of me, and he spoke these simple words. “That is why I came to you today. I wanted to tell one person the story of my life while I still could remember it. That one person is you. Now, you alone have the full story. ” I think he shed a tear of two, the only tears he had allowed himself for the whole while. And, as he stood to leave, he shook my hand, and said, “Thank you for listening.”
Even now, these many years since, I still don’t know how to express how those words touched me. I was stunned because I had no idea that our time together would end with this revelation. I was embarrassed because I had wanted the man to hurry through his recollections so we could get to the end of them. I felt unworthy because he had decided I would be the one to whom he told the story of his life–as only he could tell it– for the last time. I felt the responsibility was too much. I would be the only one on the face of the Earth who knew his story long after he would not know it himself. Me–why did he choose to tell me? Surely there was someone more deserving than me.
In time, which is to say, with more years behind me than before me, I have come to believe that I was chosen, perhaps not so much by him, but by the One who first had given this man the gift of his life. And that Benevolent Being wanted me to learn an essential truth of life while I still was young. That eternal truth, I believe, can be expressed simply. It is this–when someone tells you his or her story, listen. Because in that moment, you stand on sacred ground and, at the very least, you should remove your sandals.
— Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 