the answer
It kills me to think that I almost didn't stop.
That I almost was the same New Yorker everyone else was that day.
That I almost let them tell me he was probably fully capable.
That I almost…
I should have asked his name.
It kills me that I didn't ask his name.
I could have gone to visit him in the hospital.
and known he was okay.
.
.
Friday morning, I was walking out of yoga on 85th st.
It was 11:00 a.m. just about the peak of mid-morning bustle
around the franchised district of the Upper East.
It would be more accurate to call this bustle the mad race to Panera.
I was walking out with a limp because my right hip
had decided to rebel on me for the first time since my dancing days.
I was hobbling along trying to figure out whether a cab
was worth my money or not and feeling like I was going to cry,
not this again…
.
.
I only made it to the corner when I saw a man
barreling at me crossing the street.
(well, as much as you can barrel with a walker helping)
He was alternating between balancing himself on the walker
and holding his left hand up in the air to signal for me to stop.
He made it across the crosswalk and watching him
approach my direction I cannot lie that I had
at least a moment or two or three of,
"Oh no… not now. Just let me have my pity moment."
I took a quick assessment of his walker. Then of him.
And tried to prepare myself for what his story may be.
I didn't look down at first and only looked at his face
that was deeply troubled, confused,
worried, bewildered, defeated…
as he stumbled through an explanation and pieced together
what was happening and what he needed,
all while anxiously fumbling through a large stack of
crumpled hospital papers trying to figure out how to get me to believe...
It wasn't the type of stumbling that was making up a story
it was the type of stumbling that occurs when you are
so deeply disturbed by what is happening you can't
sift through your brain properly to make it come out of your mouth.
.
.
He was pointing around showing me the geographic locations
of his story with his right hand
while he switched the papers to his left.
.
.
He lived on 86th street so he pointed over there. He needed to get
to the hospital and he pointed downtown helplessly. He had tried to
take the train back there but he threw up because he was in so much
pain. He only had ten dollars in his pocket and he pointed down.
He needed to take a cab and he pointed to the yellow blurs on Lexington Avenue. And he had Liposarcoma.
I didn't know exactly what
that was.
But I knew… it was cancer.
.
.
I looked at the man who was hunched over to about 4 feet tall,
hair untamed and light grey. I looked at his shoes that appeared
to have been thrown on at a moments notice.
I looked at his clothes that reminded me of an emergency.
The kind that you pick up whatever is on the floor when your child
needs to be taken to the hospital ASAP and none of it makes sense.
He began repeating parts of the story trying to make sense of the
situation himself and began to explain Liposarcoma, cancer of the liver,
in a very knowledgeable and dignified manner.
.
.
I looked at his healthy hand. His hand holding the hospital papers.
And his other hand caught my eye, just as he was going to explain
to me what his symptoms were.
On his right hand was an open, bloody, leaking sore and the skin
looked as though a golfball were underneath it.
Thank goodness, I wanted to be an ER doctor in my last life.
I almost began to tear up in empathy pain, though my tears
would have felt as though they were in vain compared to
what he must have been feeling.
I dug down in my purse and emptied my wallet of $6.73.
I wish there were more. I handed all of it to him and said
maybe if someone else had about $4 he could make it
downtown to the hospital in Union Square.
What in the world was I thinking?
There was no way that this man was going to get
four more dollars by the time he needed to be in the
hospital to get that sore drained.
.
.
He thanked me earnestly and kept stumbling along
the sidewalk trying to get people to stop and listen to him.
I looked down at my phone and had a missed call from my
mom and hit redial while standing on the corner.
As the phone was ringing I glanced down the street at the man
helplessly trying to get someone to stop.
But no one would even look at him.
I should have known better.
.
.
I hung up the phone before she could answer and
ran into the market on the corner and ran back to the
creepy ATM in the corner.
Got out a twenty dollar bill and ran out of the market
chasing after him as though he was going to be two blocks away.
He had only made it about thirty feet and was tearing up
looking down at the hospital papers.
.
.
"Let's hail you a cab."
He looked up at me confused, "But I don't have enough money."
"Yes you do. Here's twenty more, that will get you to Union Square. Come on, let's get you in a cab."
"Oh… Oh.." tears were welling up in his eyes.
I couldn't even look at him because I knew I would begin to cry.
I helped him over to an empty space on
just off the sidewalk and put my hand up.
He looked up at me.
"Oh God, you're an angel. Oh God. Oh. An Angel."
I saw a cab with the light on two stoplights away and made sure he made eye contact with me to confirm he was stopping.
The man began to look at me and my yoga mat.
I had forgotten I was dripping sweat from being in the heated room.
"Gosh you look so healthy. I remember when I was that healthy.
I wish I could still do that."
"I have no doubt you can, if we just get you some help right now."
.
.
The cab driver pulled over and looked at us
out of his window a bit suspicious of this pair.
There was still a puddle at my feet from sweat
and I realized it probably looked pretty gross…
not to mention my friend here with
the open sore standing on Lexington Avenue.
We were probably attracting some judgmental stares.
We didn't care. I looked at him and got the
courage to look him in the eyes even if it
meant that I cried.
.
.
He insisted upon getting into the cab himself.
I took his healthy arm and slid him into the back seat
while the cab driver folded his walker into the trunk.
He was still holding onto his stack of papers for dear life.
He looked up at me and said, "Angel, what is your name?"
Choking back tears, "My name is Chloe`."
"Chloe`? Ohhhhh, thats a movie star name!
You're a movie star aren't you?"
Oh this five minutes of my life just keeps getting
more memorable.
"No sir, I'm not a movie star. Not that I know of at least?
But thank you."
"Well thank you Chloe`, God bless you."
He shut the door all on his own and I looked at the cab driver,
"Please take him to Beth Israel Hospital."
I waved through the window and the cab driver gave me
one last perplexed, yet astounded glance.
.
.
I stood there for a few moments and scolded myself
for not getting his name so that I could have checked up on him later.
Or maybe, I should just trust the doctors were going
to help him, insurance or not.
One thing I did know. My hip didn't hurt anymore.
Perspective hit me straight in the face and heart.
.
.
I don't know what it was that made him choose me.
I don't know why I looked like the one who could help.
but, maybe. maybe I should rather be honored that he asked
to help. maybe instead of why me? maybe I was chosen.
Maybe instead of judging the other, we should trust
that our gifts are truly needed. That they will be used
for good and not taken advantage of. Maybe we should
trust that when we have more than enough, there are others
who have less than what they need.
And what we have belongs to something bigger, not us.
I was only asked a question.
And I chose to respond. to answer
Next time destiny, the universe, God, the Divine
or whomever it may be for you asks you a question.
I dare you to be brave enough, still enough, courageous enough,
humble enough, still enough, compassionate enough to answer
and allow yourself to be used. to be used by an angel.
















