Another Death in the Neighborhood
I didn’t really know the guy on the next block who passed away last week.
Over the years we said little more than hi, how are you doing in passing.
It was obvious he was visually impaired and walked with a prosthetic leg.
Marjorie, down the block, called to tell me that he left behind
a lot of medical supplies and asked if my wife—who’s a nurse—
would be interested in looking at the stuff with the possibility
of donating it to the hospital where she works or sending most
of it to Africa as Marjorie knows that my wife sends a few barrels
full of medicine, clothes, and other items to her family and other people
in need at least twice per year.
As my wife is very interested, I set things up with Marjorie and we
all go over there gaining easy access to the guy’s basement apartment
as Marjorie is friends with the owner of the house.
Inside is a bunch of medical equipment, especially geared to a person
who is diabetic—which, it turns out, he was as well.
My wife puts three huge bags of medical supplies together,
and then Marjorie—who was searching for something inside
a large box—pulls out the guy’s prosthetic leg that has a boot
attached to it. She holds it up and asks my wife if she’d be interested
in taking that as well.
Looking at my wife I say to her, “Why would you take that?”
To which she looks at me as if I asked the most ridiculous question
she’s ever heard. “I know people in Africa who could use this leg.
Are you kidding me! We can’t get something like that over there!”
“Really!?” I respond, and then Marjorie says in a kindly, informative tone,
“Do you realize a prosthetic leg like that runs anywhere from 50 to 70 thousand dollars!?”
Surprised, and feeling a bit embarrassed, I answer, “No, I had no idea
it would cost that much.” And then I think to myself, “I guess they decided
not to bury him with it. But then maybe he was cremated…”
After we put the bags in the trunk of my car, my wife and I head home to store
everything in the garage until she’s ready to send off another shipment…
Over the years we said little more than hi, how are you doing in passing.
It was obvious he was visually impaired and walked with a prosthetic leg.
Marjorie, down the block, called to tell me that he left behind
a lot of medical supplies and asked if my wife—who’s a nurse—
would be interested in looking at the stuff with the possibility
of donating it to the hospital where she works or sending most
of it to Africa as Marjorie knows that my wife sends a few barrels
full of medicine, clothes, and other items to her family and other people
in need at least twice per year.
As my wife is very interested, I set things up with Marjorie and we
all go over there gaining easy access to the guy’s basement apartment
as Marjorie is friends with the owner of the house.
Inside is a bunch of medical equipment, especially geared to a person
who is diabetic—which, it turns out, he was as well.
My wife puts three huge bags of medical supplies together,
and then Marjorie—who was searching for something inside
a large box—pulls out the guy’s prosthetic leg that has a boot
attached to it. She holds it up and asks my wife if she’d be interested
in taking that as well.
Looking at my wife I say to her, “Why would you take that?”
To which she looks at me as if I asked the most ridiculous question
she’s ever heard. “I know people in Africa who could use this leg.
Are you kidding me! We can’t get something like that over there!”
“Really!?” I respond, and then Marjorie says in a kindly, informative tone,
“Do you realize a prosthetic leg like that runs anywhere from 50 to 70 thousand dollars!?”
Surprised, and feeling a bit embarrassed, I answer, “No, I had no idea
it would cost that much.” And then I think to myself, “I guess they decided
not to bury him with it. But then maybe he was cremated…”
After we put the bags in the trunk of my car, my wife and I head home to store
everything in the garage until she’s ready to send off another shipment…