Orange Juice

I was in the orange juice section of the dairy aisle when I received my first prayer. It sometimes happens that way, I guess. I was just looking for some juice with a little bit of pulp, but there are a million and one pulp options to choose from. There's semi-strained and mid-range and mildly-chunky and almost-a-solid and I couldn't tell what any of them meant but I just needed to get the juice that Claudia would drink and I didn't have time to stand in the goddamn juice aisle having a panic attack over pulp but it was happening and there was no stopping the tears once they started.

Do you know how embarrassing it is to cry over orange juice? Let me tell you something: it's even more mortifying to have a stranger come up and gently ask if they can pray for you. The final nail in the coffin is the nod that just happens on its own, the assent from God knows where, the unspoken admission that you're absolutely not ok.

Well, that's how I met Tom. Weeping. In the grocery store. He stood next to me, grey haired and wearing these painty coveralls with a patched flannel overtop, graciously looking over the juice selection instead of the teary woman beside him.

"I don't mean to intrude on the moment you're having here," he said softly, "but if you need it, I'd be happy to pray for you."

The orange juice I'd arbitrarily grabbed broke out in a cold sweat in my hand.

"Now? Here? In front of the juice?" As if that somehow made it more embarrassing.

He nodded, and his weathered face looked so kind that I just gave in to the moment and nodded back.

To be clear, I'm not a religious person. Not yet, anyway. I think the potential's there, since I'm relatively gullible and prone to wonder, and maybe Tom saw that. Maybe that's a quality the subversively proselytizing-types can sniff out in others and that's the only reason he approached me. 

"Hey God, it's me, Tom," he began, and even though I was pretty sure I was supposed to close my eyes, they widened. "Hope you've been well since our chat this morning. Your child here seems to be having a rough go of it, so could you please send a little extra of your infinite love her way? Please be with her as she goes about the rest of her day and support her as only you can do. As always, thank you for your love and guidance. Your humble servant, Tom."

Tom concluded his prayer with an "amen" and I stood awkwardly, wondering if I should thank him or ask him if he needed a prayer himself, not that I knew how to give one, but it seemed like the right thing to do. 

"Are you a priest?" I finally came up with, and flinched at the unintended accusation in my tone. He didn't look like a priest, though the only image I had in my mind were those guys that wear black robes with the white collar peeking through.

"I'm a writer," he said, which in hindsight didn't really answer my question.

"Oh. Well..." I fidgeted with the straps of my canvas bag. "Thank you, um... Tom."

He just smiled, then turned and walked away. 

Just like that! Seriously, he just prayed for me and left. 

I floated through the rest of my shopping trip as if through a fever dream. Nothing that bizarre had ever happened to me before, which made me realize just how boring my life has been. In the end, I got pulp-free juice. 

During the car ride back to Claudia's I couldn't stop thinking about Tom and his gnarled, work-weathered hands clasped together, or the casually earnest plea he made to his God to simply love me. It may have been bizarre, but it was also the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me, which made me realize how lonely my life has been. I teared up again. 

"You've been crying," was the first thing Claudia said when I got back to her house. "And you got the wrong juice."

I didn't bother denying either allegation. "I'm sorry," was all I said.

"Well, you're only human," Claudia allowed, then began the slow process of shuffling with her walker from the kitchen to her recliner in the living room. "I'll have a glass anyway. Pour one for yourself too, and let's have a chat."

It was what I dreaded but didn't have an excuse to refuse, and she knew it. She'd already had her shower and I'd done the cleaning before shopping. There was nothing to do but finish putting away the groceries before pouring the pulpless stuff into two crystal glasses. 

I sat in the rocker next to her and looked out the window at the bird feeders that mostly fed squirrels. There was one out there when I looked, greedily shoving seeds into its mouth as if I didn't carefully keep the feeders well stocked at all times. 

"It must be hard for you," Melissa finally said, setting her glass on a quilted coaster with a shaky hand. "I'm sure I'm not the first, nor will I be the last in your line of work. Hazard of the occupation, I suppose?"

My mouth made a mechanical smile that felt so forced I immediately dropped it. "It's not about me," I tried to assure her. "I'm not the one..." I paused, suddenly awkward. 

"Dying?" she filled in. 

I winced. There was no other way around it. My client was dying, would be dead soon, and she was right. It was just a part of the job– the worst part. 

"It's hard to me too," Melissa admitted, sipping her juice. "Terrifying, really. But it'll be over soon. For you, you'll have to go on shouldering the grief. I assume you'll grieve for me, of course."

"Of course," I said, my smile less forced this time. "I'm not supposed to have favourites, but..."

"Of course," she parroted back, then took a deep breath and exhaled for a long time. "You've helped make the humiliation of needing a caregiver actually bearable, and I'm more grateful than you know. Aging is a terribly humbling thing, and I've been one of the lucky ones to have people like you who treat me like I'm still a person. So thank you for all you've done for me."

And dammit, I teared up again. How could I not? It was deeply touching, but I was also acutely aware that something was wrong with me. I was shamelessly sitting there letting a dying woman comfort me, when it should have been the other way around. I thought of Tom again and the ease with which he comforted a person who so clearly needed it. I wished I was more like him. I wished I also had a God to ask to support the person hurting in front of me.

My visit with Claudia concluded with a hug, which isn't prohibited but not exactly encouraged, either. She said she wouldn't tell if I wouldn't, and I figured we both needed it. I washed the crystal glasses and said goodbye, wondering how many more visits with her I'd have left. 

She was my last client for the day, and at that point I was not looking forward to going home and being alone. 

"I should really get a pet," I said out loud as I got in my car. To fill the silence I turned on NPR, something Claudia got me hooked on. I drove around town aimlessly while listening to Radiolab and the stories people had that were worth telling. They made me think of her, of Claudia, who was filled with interesting stories. She'd been a collegiate athlete, volunteered in the Peace Corps, worked for the UN as a human rights lawyer, and spent her retirement traveling the world by sailboat with her late wife. 

My life, and by extension my self, seemed so small in comparison. I didn't go to college. I'd thought about being a nurse, but couldn't afford the education. I worked as a server after high school, saving up to take a training course to become a caregiver instead, and have been doing that ever since. I've never traveled. I thought I was in love once, but looking back it was just desperation to not be left behind. My life has been filled with non-events and missed opportunities, and I worried about the bitterness I sometimes tasted when hearing about the lives of my clients.

Would my life really be comprised of nothing the endless grief of being a caregiver? The news this morning about Claudia's diagnosis had reminded me again that death exists. It's so obvious, so inevitable, and yet we all just push it away until it's right in front of our face and we're forced into a staring contest with the Grim Reaper. In my three years doing this job, I've come to the conclusion that the pushing away is a necessary part of professionalism. This preemptive grief was holding up an unflattering mirror to my weepy, selfish weakness, and no one can go around living like that, not when they have a job to do and other clients to take care of.

Tom sprang back into my mind with the vigour of a much younger man. I wondered if someone like him, someone who had unwavering faith in a higher power, could bear grief in a way that didn't make him hate himself. I wondered if he was just naturally kind, or if his God made him that way. I wondered if God could make me that kind, too.  

Before I knew it, I was pulling into the parking lot of one of the churches in town, the pretty stone one with the steeple that made me think of someplace quaint, like Vermont. It wasn't even Sunday, but I hoped being in the proximity of religion would forge some sort of connection. 

I turned off the ignition, letting silence wash over me, and stared up at the stained glass windows. I felt foolish, but I also felt desperate, and if you've ever been desperate then you know it wins every time.

"Hey God, it's me, Amy," I began.