Deeds of the Heart

During the morning in the warmer months, I sit on my balcony to meditate and bask in the rising sun. I would burn incense and sip coffee while taking in the traffic rushing by on the busy street and observe my neighbours leave their homes to go about their day.

Things got quiet in 2020. It was the end of July, and the province was less than two months out of the first Covid lockdown. Nothing was normal, and the streets still as people adjust to their new routines working from home.

One particular morning had an abrupt start with a young man running up and breaking the silence, shouting for me to call 911. There was an unresponsive man behind the recycling bin.

I immediately placed the call and stayed on the line as I ran down to help. My heart sunk. It was our friendly neighbourhood roamer who hadn’t been seen since the beginning of Covid. In his 60’s, living on the streets, this community is home. He would make his daily rounds through the neighbourhood, gathering recyclables to cash in at the bottle depot. He was suffering from extreme heat and an apparent overdose.

I stayed on the phone with 911 and instructed the young man on chest compressions until help arrived. After the paramedics came, they used the defibrillator to restart his heart. His eyelids fluttered open, and his eyes locked with mine. Our souls spoke to one another as I silently begged for him to stay with us.

As people began to gather around, the care and concern for this man were apparent. He never spoke to any of us; he would smile a toothless grin and lift his hand to wave hello. One of the residents gathered his belongings to put away for safekeeping. Without knowing his name, it became a waiting game to see if he would return.

A few days later, out on the balcony, I could hear a man’s voice bellowing for my attention. I looked over, and there he was, beaming his big toothless grin. He was alive!

He introduced himself as Hardy and squeezed me so hard I thought my ribs might break. I felt such a sense of relief and joy. I informed him of where his belongings were and stocked him up with some water and the bottles I saved for him every couple of weeks. As he wandered off, I told him not to be a stranger.

A few weeks later, I had been doing some writing and was thinking of my father, who died by suicide when he was 42, and I was 24. His struggle with drugs and alcohol consumed him, and our relationship was tumultuous. After my daughter was born, I distanced myself to protect her from the pain between him and me. One year before he passed away, we reconciled, and I was gifted with those last few memories.

Lost in thought, the dogs began to bark, and I went outside to see the commotion. Hardy stood at the top of the stairs with a big walking stick and a large cowboy hat to block the sun from his already weathered skin. The pungent cologne of whiskey seeping through his pores. “You told me not to be a stranger, so here I am!”

I invited him up, and we sat outside talking about that fateful day, soon afterward he began to tell me about his daughters. A proud father, he beamed with pride as he spoke of their accomplishments. He admitted that they have been trying to reach him and have even invited him to live with them, but shame had been all-encompassing, and he refused to bring his addiction into their lives.

The irony of his divinely timed drop-in as I was revisiting the past was not lost on me. The last few weeks’ events had led up to this day where we could impart wisdom to heal the ache of invisible wounds. I told him of my relationship with my father and how I wished it had been different. Hardy confessed to the pain that kept him away so that he could keep his daughters safe from his demons. We shared an unspoken understanding.

I encouraged him to accept their invitation to connect. With tears streaming down his face, he stood and embraced me, then softly spoke, “I love you, my girl.”

Those were the exact words my father would say and the last ones I heard him say to me before ending his life. My heart overflowed with gratitude for this profound gift.

I haven’t seen my friend since that day. He says that my good deed saved him, but he gifted me the message I needed to hear.