Turning 50 Aint For Sissies, The Final Saga
Filed in No doubt about it. I was currently mired smack in the middle of a serious run of bad luck.
She-Who-Is-Better-Versed-Than-I-In-The-Verses-Contained-In-The-Bible contends there is no such thing as luck–that all instances of providence are part of God’s plan. We have spirited discussions over this topic as I believe the manner in which a football bounces after a punt does not generally concern our Creator. Whether it lands on its side or an end, factoring in the precise amount of air pumped into the 
I can, however, wrap my mind around something said by Branch Rickey, general manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers, among other teams.
“Luck is the residue of design.”
You see, I’d been having a rather difficult time since turning fifty. My physician-diagnosed hernia had morphed into a kidney stone and I had experienced more pain in one twenty-four hour period than perhaps in my entire life. But my luck, as luck would have it, was about to change.
A few days after my scheduled CT-scan I was back in Dr. Sparky’s office to discuss the results.
“I have good news and bad news for you. First the bad news. You’re going to die. Someday. Just not now. The good news is that it won’t be from a kidney stone. You passed it because the scan shows no trace of one whatsoever.”
Well. Anytime a doctor has to be the one to tell you that you’ve passed a kidney stone–and it’s a suprise to you–has to be one of the luckiest days of your life. Generally speaking, you don’t need another human being to deliver this news. You just know. That I had to be informed of this event meant I had been spared some enormous pain.
I use the term “luck” but I believe, in this case, my good fortune was the residue of provident design. Funny thing about such providence. You never know exactly when it’s going to occur and often aren’t even sure if God’s had His hand in events after they’ve happened.
A case in point.
I was sitting in my car, minding my own business. I had just dropped off The Ten Year Old at soccer camp and had stopped off with The Toddler in tow to mail six large packages at the US Snail Mail Office. Pulling out of the parking lot I noticed a friend I hadn’t seen for a while riding his bicycle across the street. Seeing he was crossing my way I decided to pull over and wait.
So I was just sitting there.
Parked by the side of the road.
In a legal parking spot.
Minding my own business.
When I unhooked my seatbelt and leaned across the passenger seat to roll down the window.
Did I mention I was minding my own business?
My friend John rode by on the sidewalk and I waved out the window, calling his name. Not sure who had shouted, but clearly cognizant someone was no longer minding his own business, John stopped, then shuffled his bicycle backwards. A glint of recognition was all the facial acknowledgement I needed to know he was glad to see me. And pleased even, perhaps, that I was way past minding my own business.
He opened his mouth to speak. Perhaps he would have said, “What ho, young Blogs,” for to a man in his seventies I, a newly-minted fiftigenarian, might look deceptively young. Maybe a short “Lovely weather we’re having” might have offered an appropriate entree to further discussion. I’m sure if he’d have chided, “So if you’re not minding your own business, do you mind telling me just who bloody well is?” I would be taken aback for a moment, no doubt. But I’d have sustained the shock and moved on with my life.
Sadly, John offered none of these conversational gambits. I can only wish he’d thought to mention, “It might be timely to reaffirm your seat belt, my friend, for a large, recent model rental car driven by a man of Middle Eastern extraction who has no driver’s license, no vehicle registration, and no proof of insurance, is about to plow into the rear end of your fine family van rendering it completely worthless for all uses–except as a really good paperweight.”
Yes, I wish John had warned me of this impending Kodak moment. I might not have bounced so realistically like a pinball off its bumpers, rattling to and fro off the dashboard, the roof, the passenger seat, the door. That I happened to score a free game was of little comfort. But because I was unable to predict this seminal event in my otherwise dashboard kissing-free existence, I simulated all of the actions as described.
As I gathered my wits, strewn about the van like Raisonettes on the sticky floor of a second run theater, I realized I had just blown the perfect opportunity to meet my Maker. Clearly, I conceded while stumbling from the vehicle in Mr. Goodwrenching pain, my Maker was playing it coy in His quest for significant face time with me.
I made my way around to the passenger door, which I rolled open to find out the condition of The Toddler. She was crying. It was not a bellow of pain I heard but the sullen whimper of a scared child. She called out to me.
“Papa… Papa…” she cried.
Many child-rearing experts eschew the familiarity of this salutation, but I have never been one to have my children address me as “Mr. Blogs.” This is the one chink in my sentimental suit of armor. I find it sufficient that Mrs. Blogs has yet to step over this line of formality.
It appeared The Toddler was fine. The restraints in her car seat likely prevented an egregious “Tilt,” or worse, “Game over.”. I held her close and wept, “Daddy Blogs is here for you.” Somehow that made everything better as we sat in the van together, waiting for help to arrive.
John was negotiating for information from the young man who had just hijacked my neck and back. He had no documentation to offer, explaining he had left everything pertinent to this accident at the fictitious address he was only too happy to provide.
John asked him to use his cell phone to call an ambulance. While we never actually saw him make the call, the guy assured us he had. He waited around for about ten minutes. When a good Samaritan happened to pass by our little incidnt, she was thrilled, being a Samaritan, to find a group of strangers in need of good-deed-doing. She offered to call the police on her cell phone. The young man, showing more concern when hearing the words “cell” and “police” than he had for my van or child, began edging toward his own damaged car. Fondling his keys a bit more than a Baptist might think proper, he told us that he needed to go pick up his mother who was only two blocks away and that he would be right back.
John and I looked at each other and, seeing the wrinkles chiseled into the other’s face, realized neither of us was born yesterday. We also had not just fallen off a turnip truck although my body was certainly beginning to believe otherwise.
“You stay here and wait for the police,” offered John. “I’ll ride down and tell your mother what’s happened.”
“She doesn’t speak English,” the man pleaded.
We explained that leaving the scene of an accident could bring him a world of hurt as a hit and run driver. He smiled and comforted us. He would be right back. We would see. We could trust him.
Considering neither John or I were in any condition to tackle the man, who had given his name as Jabib Jones, we watched him drive away. Actually, “drive” is too strong a verb for his getaway. As he pulled into traffic the front end of his car emitted an unearthly, grating sound that no steering mechanism was ever likely to recover from, but which I immediately recognized as the intro to an obscure Motley Crue song. The noise continue unabated as his vehicle reached speeds upward of two miles per hour. John and I looked at each other sentimentally, knowing this guy must really love his poor MaMa to run what was left of his car so completely into the ground. Perhaps we had misjudged the bloke.
The police, who were just arriving with fire department and paramedics on hand, would later that day discover the man’s abandoned vehicle a few blocks from the accident. John and I hoped his mom had survived the ordeal of having to walk home. But then we consoled each other with realization this good son likely carried his mom home on his back whistling, “Me and Mrs. Jones.”
The paramedics questioned me for what seemed like ten minutes but was actually nine minutes and thirty seconds. The Toddler regaled the firemen with her impish grin and puckish charm. John gave the police the facts. Just the facts.
It seemed we all had our appointed jobs for the occasion and mine just happened to be laying prone while six burly firemen affixed a neck brace, then rolling me onto a stiff board. I had never ridden in an ambulance before. The little boy in me asked if I could have the siren.
“Sir,” the driver responded, “we don’t do that. Could you please keep your inner child in check?”
I’d like to say that I was met at the hospital by a team of twelve doctors and six nurses; that they used every tool in their vast arsenal to bring my body back from the edge of eternity. But being wheeled into the hospital on your back really isn’t as exciting as you might think.
They took extensive X-rays and gave me some Vicodin for the pain. The Toddler, who had ridden with me, was regaling the staff with her impish grin and puckish charm. I’m guessing she’s going to find a way to make some money off of that one of these days. My family and some dear friends arrived on the scene and showered me with a grat deal of love, concern, and prayer.
With no broken bones, nor blood to be found anywhere–just an extremely sooore neck and a very paaaainful back–I was released from the hospital into the custody of those I love.
So what have I learned form all this?
Well, I’ve learned that if I ever want to go searching for my heart’s desire that I don’t really have to go any further than my own…no, wait–that’s another ending. I learned that I make a better father than a pinball machine.
I believe God’s protection was really on The Toddler and I that day and that Allstate’s got nothing on him when it comes to Good Hands. Not in some abstract, God-is-watching-us-from-a-distance kind of way, but up close and personal. And I’m most grateful through my aches and pains that The Toddler was utterly spared injury more than a good scare. If there ever were a time to take to heart the words “I will never leave you or forsake you,” it was that day on Laurel Canyon Blvd. in North Hollywood, California. I learned personally that luck really is the residue of design and that I had good design taking care of me every step of the way.
Oh, and I learned one more thing which I feel duty-bound to pass along. And you can take this one to the bank: Turning fifty, lads and lassies, aint for sissies.
