Improbable, Impatience

On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.

Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).

It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.

Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.

"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."

Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.

"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."

By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.

"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.

We were headed home and that was all that mattered.