I’m Sorry!
One of the things you eventually learn when you have a terminal illness is how much it messes with your emotions. Life is hard for everyone, of course, or at least for almost everyone. Being married (or in a serious relationship), raising kids (ouch!), holding down a job, balancing work and life, paying the bills, etc. None of it’s easy.
But when you add serious illness into the mix, well, things can spiral out of control. A person who is normally calm and collected may find themselves suddenly and unexpectedly lashing out at someone. An Incredible Hulk like change comes about, fueled by the release of pent up emotions. One second everything’s fine, the next second, fireworks.
I would never define myself as an angry person. And I don’t think very many people would define me that way. Indeed, anger and I have very little to do with each other.
However there’s this guy who stole the parking spot I was waiting for during the Christmas rush who probably thinks I should attend anger management classes. I think he was a little surprised when I shouted at him, accused him of stealing “my” spot (I’d been waiting longer, but he pulled in anyway), and gave him a completely unacceptable gesture.
While driving away from that ugly scene, I remember thinking to myself, What’s wrong with me? I never do anything like that!
My only conclusion was that it was my frustrating situation, how I’m dying way before my time and there’s nothing much I can do about it. I couldn’t explain my complete change of character in any other way.
A few minutes later, embarrassed and overwhelmed with guilt, I drove back towards the parking spot stealer and his buddy. Even though he’d started it, my reaction was completely unacceptable. So I told them that I was a complete idiot and that I was sorry.
They agreed with me about the idiot part and went on their way. And I thought to myself, You’d better be careful, Jim old boy. You have a lot of messed up emotions percolating deep down inside, and they’re just waiting for a chance to boil over.
Fast forward two months and that monster inside escaped once again.
I was at a copy place in Norman, a business that may have once had a name that rhymes with Stinkos. I was in a pretty good mood and was going to buy a few heavy-duty envelopes, because I had some books to mail.
When I entered the store, I was pleased to find I was the only customer inside. (Well, to be honest, there was one other guy. But he was at one of those self-serve copiers, so he didn’t really count.) It was late, but there were still four employees in the store. So with four employees for one customer, my chances of getting in and out of there quickly were good.
I grabbed the envelopes and headed toward the cash register. Nobody was there, but I wasn’t concerned. They’d get there soon enough, and I wasn’t really in a hurry.
I stood at the register for a couple of minutes, which is pretty long really, given the situation. At that point, I began wondering, what’s the deal? I noticed one of the employees was working on some machine in the back. This left one employee who was busy on a copying job and two female employees who were talking to each other behind the back counter.
Maybe they haven’t seen me, I thought. And so I moved over to the back counter. And there I stood patiently for another minute or two.
The female employees were about fifteen feet away and chatting about something. Could be work related, but it might not be. It was hard to tell. They weren’t facing me. They were turned to the side. Still, with any effort at all, they could’ve seen me with their peripheral vision. They wouldn’t even have to turn their heads.
How rude, I thought. A bell rings when you enter the store, so they were on notice that I was there.
Nevertheless, they kept chatting, somewhat nonchalantly, while I stood at the counter.
I wasn’t angry. If anything I was just surprised by the poor service. But I decided to rise above it, to handle it with grace.
I cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me.”
One of the chatting women, the one closest to me, turned slowly and gave me what appeared to be a “go to hell” look.
“Yes?” she said with a put-off tone that had a hint of sarcasm.
“Umm… I was, uh, ready to check out.”
“Check out?” she said again with that same tone as before. “And what were you wanting to check out?”
It’s hard for me to describe the scornful tone she’d used when saying these things. But it was clear that she wanted me to know that she considered me a nuisance. That I had interrupted her.
What was I wanting to check out? Was she kidding? I was holding the envelopes in my hand, right there, in plain view.
The monster inside me was unleashed.
“Well,” I said with anger rising as I spoke. “I was under the impression that this is a store. You know, a place where customers walk in, pick up something they need, and then take it to the cash register to be checked out! Am I wrong?”
The employee gave me a hateful look that said, well, I hate you. She walked over, as slowly as she could, took the envelopes, and rang me up. I gave her a ten dollar bill, and she gave me the change, while staring at me and never speaking, much less apologizing.
“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t mean to be an ass, but come on!”
I turned and left. Then I went to the car and told Ford what had happened, expecting him to be on my side.
“Jeez, Dad,” he said. “You need to chill out.”
This bothered me. Ford hadn’t seen it my way. But he hadn’t been in there, for if he had he’d know that I was the one who was wearing the white hat here. In retail, the customer is always right.
But you can’t live a life you can be proud of that way, always looking for who’s right and who’s wrong. Turn the other cheek is a much better life philosophy, I think, even when you’re dying from cancer.
A couple weeks later, I was dropping off some videos nearby and saw that copy store again. And when I did I was ashamed at my actions. So I’d had to wait a few more minutes than I should have. Sure the service had been poor. Sure the woman had thrown fuel on the fire. But I was the one who had responded by humiliating her for her actions. Did she deserve it? Maybe. Did it make me feel good about myself? No. Quite the opposite.
On a whim, I headed to the copy store to apologize. After all, isn’t that what terminally ill people are supposed to do? You apologize to all those people you’ve ever wronged.
I stepped into the store to see if “she” was there. Yes, she was.
Oh dear.
“She” was helping a male customer at the same back counter where I’d confronted her two weeks before. I took my place in line behind the customer. We briefly made eye contact, and I could see that she recognized me.
As I waited for my turn, my thoughts turned briefly to this apologizing business. Who else did I need to apologize to?
Let’s see… there was my second grade teacher, who retired a few years back after forty years of teaching. At her retirement party, she’d named my class as her worst ever. I knew I had played a big part in that, so she was a good apology candidate.
Sorry Mrs. G.!
A girl named Cindy lived down the street from me when I was in grade school. I’d played a joke on her one time, burying a note in my backyard at a time when I knew she was watching. Afterward, she asked me if I liked anyone, and I said yes, but I would never tell. I had written it down and hidden it though. Afterward, I hid and watched her sneak into my backyard and dig up the note. “Fooled you, you big dummy,” the note said. I don’t know if it bothered her, but it had always bothered me.
Sorry Cindy!
A girl named Joleta from junior high school wrote me recently to remind me how I used to tease her relentlessly and how she had to fish her comb out of the library book drop everyday after I’d dropped it in there.
No permanent damage hopefully, but sorry Joleta!
I got into a fist fight with one of my best friends in college. It was a regrettable event, fueled by competition for a certain girl and happy hour. Our relationship never recovered.
Sorry Gary!
Other names were surfacing. Shawn and Stan. Mollie. An Assistant Manager at Taco Tico. Caroline. A lawyer named David.
But wait a minute. What the heck was taking so long?
I looked up and saw the female employee who had started this stroll down bad memories lane. She was being rude to the customer in front of me, rolling her eyes, sighing, giving off all kinds of negative body language.
What?
I turned and walked away, saving that particular I’m sorry for someone more deserving.
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Okay, that was hysterical. I had to read outloud to Gary.