[DYSPHAGIA] Cab ride

[LOBSTERPAM@aol.com (LOBSTERPAM@aol.com)]

This may not be 100% appropriate for the dysphagia list serve, but I thought 
it was worthwhile enough to share.  My apologies if you feel it is 
inappropriate.  Have a wonderful day, and never underestimate what you do on 
a daily basis.  You never know to what corners of human existence you will 
reach.

The Cab Ride

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a
life for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was  that it was
also a ministry.

Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving  confessional.
Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me
about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me,
made me  laugh and weep.  But none touched me more than a woman I picked up 
late one  August night.

I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part
of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers,or  someone who
had  just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an  early
shift at some  factory for the industrial part of town.

When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a  single
light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances,many  drivers
would  just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive  away.  But I
had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only
means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always  went
to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance,  I
reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.

"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear  something
being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the  door  opened.  A
small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print  dress
and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a  1940s
movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as  if no
one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with  sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the 
counters.  
In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the  suitcase
to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and  we
walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.  "It's 
nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I
would want my mother treated".

"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you
drive through downtown?"  "It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a
hospice."  I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.  "I 
don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have 
very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route  would you
like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove
through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived  when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse  that had
once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or
corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly  said,
"I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a  low
building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed
under a  portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we  pulled up.
They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must  have
been expecting her.  I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the 
door. The  woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held  onto me
tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.
"Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light.  Behind me,
a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove  aimlessly, lost
in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly  talk. What if that
woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end  his
shift?  What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven
away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important
in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great
moments. But great moments often catch us unaware--beautifully wrapped in
what others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID,...BUT THEY 
WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
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