83 - The Getaway

A few weeks back, DH Al and I do something unusual – we take a mini getaway. It is mini – one night, just two hours from the house.  But it is still a getaway.

Our hotel is on the Gulf and at the magic hour we head to the water. I am muttering about “dud sunsets” when the grayed over-horizon parts just slightly and there it is: A last, fierce blast of fiery red. Thank you, Mother Nature.

Feeling energized, we stop at the beachfront bar – Coconut Charlie’s. It is a Saturday night, and the place is hopping. Although the outdoor area is large, we can find no empty seats. We pause, uncertain.

It is at this moment that the band – two middle-aged men on guitars and another on a keyboard – finish “Hotel California” by the Eagles. One of the guitar players looks up and stares directly at me. He then smiles and I am enveloped in its gentleness and understanding. This is a man, I think, who knows about sickness and unwanted “journeys”.

I wonder: What is the giveaway? Maybe it is my sad, scrawny frame? My sagging skin? My gaunt face?

Possibly it is the way I walk, with an uneven, hesitant gait. It is as if when my foot meets the ground instead of relaying “Safe! Keep moving!” directly to my brain, the message is sent to some distant place – perhaps Patagonia? – where the attendant is distracted by cat videos.   

I then realize the most likely reason. I am holding my wide-brimmed hat, not wearing it. It is now dark and under the string of party lights, my pale, bald head shines with a strange iridescence, a lost moon from a long-lost planet.

Whatever the giveaway, a couple - who appear to be still finishing their dinners – abruptly stand and tell us: We have decided to dance; please take our table.

Later, between sets, Guitar Player approaches: How is it going? Our conversation is brief, inconsequential – DH Al liked the Steve Miller Band piece; yes, we are enjoying the evening. Yet there is a deliberateness to his action that warms me.

An hour passes, maybe more. We have split a meal and are contemplating leaving when a woman walks over, puts both hands at the edge of the table, and crouches. “Hello!” she announces. “I’m Dodie. I was a hospice nurse for ten years and I just felt compelled to come over!”

I raise an eyebrow, a bit startled. Compelled? Did ten years as a hospice nurse tell her something I need to know? She senses a certain aura? Sees a dark cloud hovering over me? Has spotted bits of hamburger stuck in my teeth?

It will be a while before I get any answers. First, Dodie tells us her story.

Dodie met her man years ago. But she did not know he was HER man and after a few years, they drift apart. They each marry others, have kids, get divorced. Then they happen to meet again and this time she gets it.

They marry, blending into a family his three kids, her two…and have three more, for good measure. Next comes a “hobby farm” in Amish country in Michigan; she homeschools the children.  Every time Dodie reaches this part – she repeats her story three times, so I have opportunity – I want to ask: Tell me more about this “hobby farm?” And wasn’t homeschooling eight children terrifying?  

But Dodie rarely pauses. She and HER man now live in Florida, but tonight is girls’ night. Dodie gives a half shrug toward a table eight feet away where five women are gathered. She is here with her two sisters! two daughters! one niece!

The sister palooza-ers look like a lively, fun group. Occasionally, one stands and sways to the music or raises a plastic cup in a toast. My guess is it is not water in those glasses as Dodie tells her story two more times before again announcing: I was a hospice nurse for ten years and I just felt COMPELLED to come over!

I am still not sure where this is heading when she states her first reason: It is SO sweet to see the two of you sitting side-by-side, not across from each other!

DH Al starts to explain: This is how the chairs were placed; we were too lazy to change them. But he trails off because Dodie is already noting point number two: We are sharing a meal!

She says this with genuine delight, as if she has spied us in a Parisian café, whispering eager plans while dunking hunks of bread into a pot of fondue. I decide not to mention my lack of appetite.

She makes her final point as she rises. “And you are HERE.” This, too, is spoken in a tone of deep satisfaction as she opens her arms in a wide, sweeping gesture.

Why bring up Hilton points that may be expiring?

Besides, Dodie is already turning and heading back to her posse.

DH Al and I leave shortly, without saying good-bye. But I think of Dodie often…with a mixture of bemusement, wonder, and gratitude.

What is the purpose of a getaway? To relax? To rejuvenate? And maybe to revisualize our messy lives through a softer, more beautiful light. And if that softer, more beautiful light is simply the reflection off a bald, chemo-stricken head, it – like the moon - is still of some comfort.