Your Story IS My Story!

This morning I carried my still-warm laptop in my arms like a baby into the broken-computer shop, laid it on the counter, and as soon as he'd typed my name and address into his system and lined my computer up with other computers to be diagnosed, the stranger behind the counter said, "This year they took out my bladder, my kidney, my colon, my urethra, and my prostate. Yeh! I have bags hanging all over me!" I bristled with antennas popping out all over me. And I couldn't help it. I looked at his mid-section to see if I could see the bags. (Wouldn't you?)

For the next 30 minutes, I listened to him with focused intent, as I'm doing more often these days. I wonder if people can see my antennas, because before I can think of a question to ask, they tell me amazing stories and teach me so much! In my earlier years, my frenetic energy kept me blabbing all the time to anyone who would listen. I loved listeners then; sadly, I wasn't one of them. I missed a lifetime of stories and information from never shutting up.

This time, I was listening to this intriguing person, to learn who he was and how he's been coping with his years of struggling with cancer. He told me all that, and so much more! He showed me his external computer drives and how they attach to the computer in a USB port. He told me that I should never leave files in my computer. He told me the best anti-virus program to get. 

Serendipity! I've been planning to help my friend Pat reconnect an external drive she already has to her old, slow computer (because my sister told me her son overhauled her old computer, which included adding an external drive). Until this morning, I didn't know what an external drive was.

I couldn't tell his age--he looked younger than me, so I asked--he'd soon be 70. I asked him if he is aware of his mortality. He said yes, but it doesn't have any bearing on his life. When I told him I have leukemia and will likely spend some years fighting cancer, he said that I must fight. I must never give up. He told me that even when he was on chemo, he came to work every day, even when he was so weak he couldn't have walked from the front door out to the telephone pole. He talked about his wife's worry about what could happen to him and his love for his grandson. He told me that when his chemo treatments started, his son-in-law who owns the computer repair shop shaved his own head.

I told him I was a singer-songwriter and still performed whenever I was asked.  He pulled some little device out of his pocket, scrolled through a list with his index finger, and then I was hearing a rich, beautiful baritone voice singing with a full band accompaniment: "Treat me like a fool, treat me mean and cruel but love me. . . ." It was Elvis Presley's style and voice, but better quality and in perfect pitch. "That'd be me," he said proudly, singing along to prove it. He'd been a musician most of his life until he took up wedding photography. His parents were traveling musicians, too. Our conversation stopped in the middle of the song when another customer came in with a computer.

I can only tell you this: it was a touching, happy episode--so happy, I would live it again, to share that person's life song, to be inspired to live my life to the fullest now, to witness his determination and use it as a guide on my way forward. It's moments like this that make life "Better than the Best." Now if my laptop can be saved. . . .