Years ago, my dad told me this story where he had two job offers he couldn’t decide between. His indecision led him to wake-up on a Monday morning, get into his car, and start driving without a plan. It was his first day on the job and he needed to make a choice. As he was headed over Highway 17, he had his sunroof open just a few inches. And at the precise moment when he’d made up his mind and chosen one company… *splat*. Like one of my favorite Far Side cartoons, a bird pooped on his head through that minuscule crack in the sunroof. He immediately drove to the other company and never looked back.
These signs… our need for these signs, is fascinating. During that very first weekend after the diagnosis, our house was enveloped in cold, gray rain and fog, with visibility of just a few feet. It was dark, dreary, hopeless weather. Then on Sunday, James took a walk alone down on Avila beach. The sky opened-up and a single beautiful ray of light shown down. Around the same time, I looked out our kitchen window and had the exact same experience. As I’d been wishing to the universe that it would be in one single, small, contained location— only one single hole opened up in the sky. And it made me feel better.
Since that time, little signs, big and small have found me when I’ve most needed it. When I’ve least expected it. We heard Bob Marley’s “Don’t Worry Bout a Thing,” on our first trip up to Stanford, and on the way back; A puff-painted rock in the parking lot; a rainbow on the second Christmas break drive home.
For several years, hummingbirds have been my little sign from the cosmos when I need reassurance. And there they are. A fat little red-headed hummingbird making such a racket from a branch, two young walkers stop to see him. Another one hovering over us at the playground. And painted on the electrical box downtown.
As we prepared for surgery, we found it exceedingly lucky that the Stanford concierge was an Indian man named George (Granddad’s name). And on the day of, our intake coordinator’s brother shared the exact same birthday as James. Then his nurse shows-up and his name is Vincent of course (Papa’s name). Vincent had the magical gift of putting people at ease.
There have certainly been days when I was attributing meaning to things that had no meaning. Is #66 at the restaurant good or bad? During our first appointment with the Stanford ENT doctor, we’re sitting quietly in the exam room and the sticker on a piece of machinery says 10/17. I try to ignore it. It’s the date of the Loma Prieta earthquake… after fifteen minutes and without explanation, the nurse moves us to another room.
A couple of days ago I get into my car, start it up, and what is playing on the radio? Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.” I’m not making this up. I’m fairly confident, the last time I heard that song on the radio I was in the third grade.
I quickly closed the sunroof.