a man named Henny

About two months ago I met a man named Henning, Henny for short. On Mondays and Wednesdays, when I take the train from Chicago to Milwaukee, I would often see Henny while studying at Starbucks. Around 11:00am or so he would often get wheeled in by someone and would tediously pull two bucks out of his shirt pocket to pay for his tall coffee and then struggle to a table. He spilled his coffee frequently. Henny was shot in 1974, and the left side of his body functions like one who had a stroke. His head is tilted to the left, his left foot is severely swollen, and his left hand appears to be crippled. He spent the five years after the incident inside his home, and eventually he got a wheelchair. His eyesight is too poor for him to use an electric wheelchair, so he relies on some sort of care giver to drop him off and pick him up. Usually around noon, I'd wheel him over to the sandwich joint next door. After his sandwich, he'd somehow manage to get outside again where he would sit in his chair on the sidewalk until he was ready for his second cup of coffee: 1/2 regular, 1/2 decaf.

I first talked to Henny because he had a Washington Huskies hat on, so I told him I was from Washington. From then on we developed a friendship, and whenever he came in on Mondays and Wednesdays, we had somewhat of a routine. He'd get coffee, I'd study, we'd chat a bit, I'd run him next door, he'd chill outside after his sandwich, and eventually he'd make it back inside and we'd chat again. We'd usually shake hands before I left for my class, and we'd both exchange "see you laters." This routine changed somewhere around the 14th of October. I don't remember the exact date, but one day he came in and things were never the same. That morning he told me that his mom died. His mom, in her 90s, still lived at home and received hospice care. Now she was gone, and Henny's already difficult life became that much more lonely, quiet and painful.

That day, as Henny sat outside after lunch, I could hardly function. What now? How do I help my friend Henny? When he first told me she died, we sat silent for at least 6 or 7 minutes. I had no idea what to do. The mere thought of this man's physical condition was enough to overwhelm me with sadness and grief. But now, the vacancy left by his mother's death could be the end all. Heartbreak is usually worse than physical pain. Indirect suffering is as damnable as direct suffering. If I was the one suffering, there can be comfort in that it is not someone else. It is still miserable and evil, nonetheless. But to sit there with this man and to be lost for words, was too much for me. As I walked to the train that night, I wept. I imagine that Henny wept too. If only tears were redemptive; if only my tears on behalf of Henny somehow made things better. On any given day this dry and barren sphere we call earth is watered with the tears of millions. Just think about all that happens on any given day. People die from hunger, murder and mere accidents. From brutal rapes to losing a job, no place is immune to chaos. No amount of money can pad one from emotional pain that comes from depression, marriage failure, bad decisions and abuse. Suffering is our lot. Someday, we'll all get the phone call.

Before Henny's mom died, we talked about the challenges he faces with being in a wheelchair and being partially crippled. I told him never to give up and to keep going. Inside, I knew that the thought of being in his position would make me want to be done with life. Neither life nor death are our prerogatives, regardless of the fact that we can produce it as well as take it. If Henny gives up, I'm not sure what I'll do. Perhaps he gave me more hope than I gave him. Ever since that day, I have not seen Henny. I pray he is okay.