My friend Morgan is still on hospice care. I spent several days at her bedside. I played guitar for her, sitting on a chair beside her. Sometimes we held hands and just looked at each other. Talking about olden times.
Like the day we first met, some years ago.
I was younger. So was she. I was writing a piece about service dogs. I would be conducting some one-to-one interviews with animal recipients.
That day, I had a string of interviews set up. Veterans with PTSD, who use service dogs for emotional healing and support. Diabetic-alerting service dogs. And service dogs capable of detecting dangerously high blood pressure. Which is a slightly different skill set than my own personal dogs who miraculously, although they are not trained, are capable of causing high blood pressure.
So there I was in the rec room area. I was sitting at a table, waiting for my next interview.
In walks this girl.
A teenager. Slight and lean. A shock of red hair, woven in a long braid. She walked with a uniquely unsteady gait. There was a purple orthopedic brace attached to her lower leg.
She stood across from me.
“My name’s Morgan,” she said. “Morgan Love.”
I rose to shake her hand.
The child’s grip was firm and confident. The skin of her hand was soft and clammy. Sort of sticky. Little-kid hands.
Her glasses were heavy prescriptions. She seemed to be straining to see. “I’m mostly blind,” she said. “Sorry, can we sit somewhere in the sunlight so I can see you?”
“Of course.” I gathered my legal notepad and backpack. We moved outside to a picnic table.
“There,” she announced. “I can see you so much better now. Look at your hair. You have red hair like me.”
“Yes, but I’m currently looking for a support group.”
She did not laugh.
I noticed her left arm held firmly at her side, limp and unmoving. I noticed the scars showing on her fair skin.
“Your last name’s Love,” I said, making notes.
“That’s right.”
“Can you spell that?” I smiled and winked.
She registered no reaction. “L-O-V-E,” she said.
“I was actually being sarcastic.”
Again no reaction.
Long pause.
She smiled. “Do you want me to spell my name again?”
“Let’s move on. Tell me about yourself.”
She shifted in her seat. “Let’s see. I’m in high school.”
“What year?”
“I’m a senior. Oh, and I’m really good at math.”
“Math?”
“Yes. M-A-T-H.”
I liked this kid.
She went on. “I got really good at math after my stroke. But I never tell people that. It makes me seem sort of like I’m bragging.”
“You became good at math AFTER the stroke?”
She nodded. “The stroke did something to my brain and it made me really good at math. It’s actually a pretty common phenomenon.”
I made a note. “So you’ve had a stroke?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve had lots of medical things happen.”
“Such as?”
“How much time you got?”
I smiled.
She counted her fingers. “I have epilepsy, I have diabetes, I’m on a feeding tube because I have gastroparesis, which means my intestines are paralyzed. Also, I am paralyzed on my left side, so walking is hard for me. I just recently learned how to walk again. Also, I am low-vision, so I am mostly blind, and I have…”
The list went on. She spoke for about fifteen minutes. She was sweet. Gentle. Smart. Self-effacing. And so wise.
When she finished reciting the bullet points of her suffering, there was not a trace of self-pity on her face. Only a warm, disarming glow.
At this time in my own life, I was fresh on the heels of my own health crisis. Some of my issues had been quite scary for me. I was feeling like a little wimp at that moment.
“That’s quite a list,” I remarked.
“Tell me about it.”
I was no longer writing. I was just staring. “How have you dealt with all these troubles so gracefully?”
She laughed. “Who, me? I haven’t dealt with anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I haven’t had to. God has dealt with it all for me.”
“God?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“Well, he’s taken care of me.”
I folded my arms. I’ve never been comfortable dismissing suffering with cute religious catchphrases.
“May I ask you a personal question, Morgan?”
“Sure.”
“How can you say that God’s taken care of you? Look at all you’ve suffered. I don’t think many people in your position would tend to agree with you.”
She adjusted her glasses.
“Let me ask you something,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“Have you ever had something really bad happen to you, something you did not think you would make it through?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Okay. Do you remember that feeling you had, once it was all over, once you knew you were safe, immediately after the whole scary situation was finished?”
“I think so, yes.”
“What did you feel in that moment?”
I thought for a second. I tried to re-experience said moment. I tried to re-feel the pain, and the wake of emotions that followed.
“I suppose I felt grateful,” I finally answered.
“To who?”
Shrug. “Well, just grateful in general, I guess.”
She shook her head. “No, you can’t thank a generality.”
“God,” I said. “That’s what you’re trying to get me to say, isn’t it?”
She smiled. “That feeling of gratitude you felt, do you remember it?”
I let my mind drift back to the particularly painful period of life. An era of violent trauma I once thought I’d never outlast. But somehow I did. “I do remember that feeling, yes.”
“Describe it.”
“How much time you got?”
She smiled again. “Now, re-remember that feeling of thankfulness that came after the bad stuff. Remember how colors were brighter, tastes seemed stronger, love felt much richer, and more powerful, and all your loved ones became more important to you. Your life became more important. Everything became more important.”
My eyes were now closed. “I can remember that feeling, yes. I can actually remember.”
“Remember how safe you felt, knowing that you had come through the worst? The bad stuff was all over.”
I nodded.
“Remember that secure feeling. Like everything would be okay, because you survived? And you were okay—not perfect, but okay.”
“Yes.”
“Alright. Now, would you call this feeling a good feeling?”
I nodded. “Oh, definitely.”
“Really good?”
“Yes.”
“How good?”
“I’d say incredibly good. Probably the goodest feeling ever.”
She smiled and touched my hand. “God lets me experience that every day.”
