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Just one moment

There's an old wicker rocking chair in the corner of my office, clear packing tape holding the seat together. It doesn't really match the aesthetic of the rest of the room but it has a place of prominence, the first thing you see when you walk in the door. No one ever really sits in it, and not just because there's a photo permanently perched on the seat in a place of honor; the chair is not there for function, it's there for friendship. It's a meaningful memento from one of the best friends I've ever had. 


Today is the two-year anniversary of my friend Dr. J's death and he's still so often on my mind. Every single time I drive by his favorite restaurant, Foster's. Every time I read a good book and want to lend it to him so he can read then discuss. Every time a new episode of The Crown or Great British Bake-Off airs. Every time I see or eat a cranberry scone. Every time I pass Bojangle's. Every time I walk the Al Buehler trail. Every time I play Wordle. Every time I look at his wicker rocking chair in my home. 


Every time I pass Duke Hospital. 


I drive by the hospital where Dr. J passed away almost every single day; it's really close to my house, almost unavoidable. I hate that out of all the places in this city that remind me of Dr. J, it's that one I encounter most often. It seems like an unfair ratio: I spent quality time with Dr. J every single weekday for over 2 years and spent less than 10 minutes with him in the hospital. But because I pass the hospital daily, and I can't see it without thinking of his time there, it's that memory that's most often recurring. And I hate that. It's not fair to him; he was vibrant and healthy and smart and sharp and that hospital where he spent his final days shouldn't be what's so rooted in my mind. That was such an incredibly tiny blip in the greater span of our relationship and his life; why does it hold so much power? 


It makes me think about people who only got to see Dr. J in those final days, those without the greater context of who he really was: nurses, doctors, staff, visitors of other patients passing by his open door. They saw a 98 year old man in a hospital bed and most likely made all sorts of assumptions about him. They didn't know that he took three walks a day — morning, noon, and night. They didn't know that he got so heated during Duke basketball games that he couldn't watch them live, only on DVR once he knew if they won or not. They didn't know he'd been the Associate Dean of Duke Medical School. They didn't know he liked to sit in the courtyard and feel the sun on his face, Phi Beta Kappa hat protecting his bald head. They didn't know he was a coffee snob or that he liked to watch Grace and Frankie on Netflix. They didn't know he was the absolute best listener and remembered everything you told him. 


All they saw was one moment. 


The sense of injustice I feel about this likely misperception of my friend makes me think about all the times I've encountered someone in an isolated moment and assumed I know something about their bigger story. All the times I've seen someone and jumped to conclusions about who they are, what they can or can't do, what their personality must be like. Based on one brief impression from one short glimpse.


Every time we meet someone we are seeing one single sentence or phrase of them; one tiny bit of text in an otherwise extensive story. How ridiculous would it be to read one sentence of a book then claim to have an idea of how the book started or will end, what it's about. Every single person has a story, and we're only privy to a tiny part of it. 


Unless we ask.


Unless we listen.


I heard a quote once: "Curiosity is a sign of respect." I believe this wholeheartedly. We must be driven by the genuine desire to know more about one another, to ask about the content of the chapters before this one. No person can be encapsulated in a single isolated moment, no story summed up in just a few words. We need to be curious about one another, and not just ask the questions but also listen. 


If you're lucky enough to live to be 98 like Dr. J, won't you — the past, present and entire version of you — want to still know and be known? I'd say as cohabitants of this planet, we need to do a better job of trying to know one another. We're not here long; isn't it the least we can do?

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