Gratitude is having its yearly moment. Before the frenzy of shopping descends, we are asked to pause and give thanks. Do you ever find it hard to live in that space? Sometimes I do.
Last September, I had surgery that went sideways. It left me confined to a wheelchair. I had to go to a rehab center. Being in this compromised predicament, I was unable to brush my teeth or take a shower without an aide. It was dehumanizing to have daily tasks reduced to a call bell.
The doctor said, "Plan on being here through Thanksgiving and we’ll see about Christmas." He added, "You will probably be able to walk again but not without assistance or a walker." What?
For someone who cherishes her independence, this was a tough pill to swallow. (And they were giving me plenty of white cups filled with a colorful array of those, trust me.) Normally, I am optimistic, hopeful and thankful. But as Thanksgiving approached, I was dreading it. How could I muster up thanks in my current situation?
Here’s the tricky thing about gratitude. It can sneak up on you. Turkey day arrived and my friend Susan came trotting in looking like a Thanksgiving sherpa schlepping an unwieldy cardboard box. She rolled me to the dining room where breakfast had just wrapped up and started pulling out a cornucopia of things. She fished out a festive tablecloth and covered the bare table. She produced coordinating napkins and plates. She decorated the table with gourds and pumpkins.
“Are we secretly filming a Wayfair commercial?” I asked.
“No,” Susan responded. “I’m just getting started.”
It made me wonder what else that box contained. It reminded me of Mary Poppins’ bottomless catchall bag. Then she brought out a loaf of homemade cinnamon bread.
“Now for the pièce de résistance!” she said.
She presented me with two Venti Starbucks cups of coffee. Susan knows I am a Starbucks junkie. “And I brought a small container of half-and-half so you don’t have to open all those packets.”
“You thought of everything,” I said.
As I poured real cream into the real coffee, my mood was lifting.
The smell of the cinnamon permeated the dining room, prompting a nursing assistant to say, “What is that smell? Cinnamon is one of the best smells on the planet. That and a new car or a clean house.”
The staff started to gather to figure out the source of the smell, so Susan began making toast for everybody. I wish I could say she turned the one loaf into multiple loaves, but there was a Thanksgiving miracle in the making: she turned this grumpy “lunchroom lady” into a smiling woman who was ready to praise the Lord for cinnamon bread. What a gift to get your favorite coffee and breakfast that whispered “home.”
There was one more item in her box of tricks: a darkish liquid in a Dasani bottle.
“What is that?" I asked. "Moonshine?”
She laughed and said, “Cindy made your iced tea the way you like it."
Cindy, another friend of mine, doesn’t make tea. She doesn’t own tea bags or Splenda. She doesn't have my secret ingredient. But I looked at the bottle and knew something was up.
Susan explained how Cindy got the recipe from my best friend Sandy, who had taken mental notes watching me make tea during an earlier visit to see me.
“Cindy had to go into my house to get my secret ingredient, Earl Grey?” I said.
Susan nodded. “She will make you more when you finish it.”
As Susan was leaving, she gave me a hug. I saluted her with my Starbucks coffee.
That night another friend, Kay, brought me a plate of her Thanksgiving dinner. It was delicious. As I was putting my leftovers in the communal refrigerator, I took a swig of tea. I looked at it. It was love in a bottle. Kindness in recycled plastic. The whole day had been an explosion of gratitude. Gratitude on steroids.
I went to bed that night humbly aware of my blessings. Not only had my friends showed up on Thanksgiving, but really, every day I was there. They brought me cake, meals, tea, and flowers the whole time.
When I was released December 1, the woman at the front desk asked to meet me.
“I wanted to see who the person was that was receiving all the flowers and visitors,” she said.
I told her how grateful I was for the people here who got me to this point.
I left using a walker. Now I am walking on my own, although not alone. I have a team of people who have helped me get stronger, like physical therapists, my Pilates instructor and acupuncturist. But it is my friends who continue to bring about the true healing with their friendship and love. For me, they are why gratitude is such an easy emotion to feel this year.
Leslie Hooton is the award-winning author of Before Anyone Else, The Secret of Rainy Days, and After Everyone Else. She lives in Myers Park.