I thought I would be smarting for days after my encounter with Charlie, but I was fine. I’ve pondered our exchange a lot, and mostly find myself grateful that our paths converged. I got many encouraging emails and comments about the story, and am grateful for that as well. You readers are a kind and generous bunch, that’s for sure.

I can still hear Charlie’s voice saying “what’s so damaged?” and “hundred bucks a pop.”  Mostly I’ve been thinking about my delivery. It’s felt very awkward lately and I’ve worried that I am “losing my touch.” But I realize that some of what was true for me ten months ago (!!), when I started down this path, isn’t so true any longer. The harsh white pain of my mother’s death has faded into a far-reaching gray smudge. And I can honestly say that I’m not the cheapskate I used to be. I am changed. This changes everything.

I made a promise to give away a hundred hundreds this year, and I’m sticking to it. I’ve started thinking that this is a promise I’ve made not only to myself but also to my mother. Connecting with strangers and surprising them with a gift is still a glorious thing for me. I can almost feel little bits of my soul getting stitched together every time. Perhaps there is a better way to honor my mother than by becoming less broken than she was, but this is what I can do for now.

That’s how I came to have a folded up hundred in my pocket today as I rode the MAX downtown. It had started out cloudy but the sun was coming out by late afternoon. You could almost feel people getting giddy as the blue sky widened. I took care of my errands and stopped to listen to a kid making music on a collection of turned-over utility buckets.

The streets were swarming and people were moving fast. A woman came toward me, a lovely smile and open expression on her face. I checked my pocket as she got closer, then realized she was having an animated phone conversation.

I was near Pioneer Courthouse Square and about to head toward the bus stop. I caught sight of a man down the block and heard a little alarm go off in my doctor brain. The man was attached to an oxygen tank; he was leaning against the building and breathing hard.

Black braids hung below his waist. I stepped a bit closer and the man glanced at me. “Beautiful day,” he said. “Sure is,” I agreed. “How you doing?” “Oh, I’ll be okay in a minute,” he said. “I just came up that hill and I need to rest a minute.” He cocked his head toward the street, which indeed was on a slight incline I had never before noticed. He was indeed okay and I breathed a little sigh of relief.

He stopped to catch his breath

“I love this city,” the man went on. “It’s just so beautiful here.” He told me he had moved to Portland from Southern Oregon a few months ago, mostly to be closer to his doctors. “They’re really working with me and I’m doing much better now.”

He pointed up the street, the same direction he had been heading. “I’m going up there. To buy a bus pass.” I followed his gaze. His destination seemed impossibly distant. “Hey,” I said. “I wonder if you can help me out with something.” He didn’t hesitate. “I might.”

I started telling him that I had made a promise to my mother and had a gift to pass along. “I’ll accept a prayer,” he said. “It’s a prayer, right?” I said no, it was different from a prayer. I held out the hundred.

“Oh, I’m not looking for money, ma’am,” he said. I told him I knew he hadn’t asked for it but that I would like him to have it. “You can put it to use, right?” He smiled and said yes. “Everyone could.”

Then he pulled out his phone to show me a picture of where his mother’s ashes are buried. He said he doesn’t have a car but a friend had driven him to Crater Lake, where they were going to bury her ashes. “I was expected to pass away in 2007,” he said. “They were going to bury me there with her. But I’m still here!” Instead of Crater Lake, they found a beautiful spot on the next mountain over and that’s where she is now. He couldn’t walk too far and felt it was a miracle that they had found the perfect spot where they did. “I’ll be there with her when my time comes,” he said.

"I'm still here!"

A woman came over and asked if he was Nez Perce. “No, Klamath,” he said.

I tucked the hundred into a little bag that was tied to his oxygen tank. He gave me a hug and asked my name. “And what kind of work do you do?”

I told him I was a doctor and he had a lot more questions. I said I really enjoy talking to people and finding out what makes them tick.

He pulled his phone out again. “Here, look. This is what makes me tick. They named her Lexie, with an L, because of me.” He showed me a picture of his granddaughter, an infant just a few weeks old. He said his name was Lincoln. He said I could snap his photo. “Wait a sec, I’ll take the tube off. Just for you.” He smiled.

Lincoln

We were saying goodbye and he gave me another hug. “Maybe I’ll see you around these parts again. I’d like that,” he said.  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

I said he already had.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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8 Responses to Just For You

  1. Betsy says:

    What a beautiful man. Thank you for sharing him with us.

  2. j. kathleen says:

    Hi Jill,
    Somehow I missed, A Complicated Transaction, until seeing the reference in today’s post. I read it first and then continued on to today’s, Just For You.

    I found myself taking some deep breaths–catching my breath really, sort of reeling (with you) from the impact of Charlie’s comments. What an incredible mirror of your healing. You were bound to unearth the “yang” of your process sooner or later. And what better vehicle than through the gritty, pointed voice of Charlie–I like it. The timing of it, the “character” and more than anything, your integration of it. I don’t see him as less kind or understanding–I see him as a mirror of the underbelly of the issues–His presence seems to say, let’s go ahead and dig up some more dirt now, because you can handle it– You are more than your story. I don’t know if I’m expressing myself well–I’m trying to say that I like that he shows you a deeper level of your healing–your deep, precious worth and deep strength (and then says: Let’s drink to it!” I guess that’s what I felt while I was catching my breath. And I suppose that’ why I love reading your blog.
    Your visceral authenticity and willingness to share your transformation of self in *real time* is inspiring.
    Reading Just for You right after the A Complicated Transaction was great.

    You are both of them–Beautiful. Gritty. Deep. True. And much much more than your story.

    I am inspired, again.

  3. DJan says:

    And I am always inspired by these posts. Love those long jet black braids! Reading the comments makes me realize that you have indeed been changed by these encounters, and you share your insights as you go. You “pay it forward” in more ways than simple cash.

  4. andrea gehrke says:

    Your photography continues to amaze me. I saw the picture of Lincoln on your blog header about five posts ago, and couldn’t wait to find out about him. I was immediately drawn in to his beautiful, angular, Native American face and those amazing braids. Certainly I would never have guessed he was sick. Our human diversity is something to behold. Your pictures show that time and again.

  5. Amy says:

    Thanks as always Dr.Jill.. I feel like Im meeting all of these amazing people right along with you.

  6. Elaine Jackson says:

    Hi, I was talking with my Dad, Lincoln and he told me to come to this website. I am intrigued by your pictures and moved by the pictures you have taken of my Dad. He is sick and it worries me for his health all the time. Thanks for taking the time to talk to him and get to know just alittle bit of his story. We all have one, some worse than others. My Dad’s story brings tears to my eyes and I want to say thank-you for blessing him that day and bless you on your endeavors…..

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