A   SPECIAL  FRIEND

Friends and loved ones give real meaning to life.  They give us assurance that we are not alone on our life’s journey.  Deep personal relationships are supportive when we are in need. They make it possible for us to understand who we really are and perceive why we respond the way we do to life situations. Such friends act somewhat as a mirror, confident enough to reflect back our responses to each other. Wayne has been that to me for several years of my life.

He always has hope and optimism, and a remarkable sense of humor. Perhaps we especially appreciate his qualities because he is a quadriplegic.  He had fallen down an Alaskan mountainside in his late twenties.  After a period of hospitalization, he has lived on his own in an especially equipped apartment, with special help twice each day. Life has put him through ordeals that have given him a broad compassion for human suffering and understanding of the dilemmas of our fellowmen.

It is a real joy to know that one has met another soul such as Wayne, with whom it is perfectly safe to be quite open, relaxed and free of any need or pretense of defense.  While we didn’t delve deeply to explore the nature of our own pain, we have shared enough to know that we each understood pain. I have often thought that someone with literary talent should write his life’s story.  We have moved quite distant from Wayne several years ago, but prior to that, we met quite regularly, for we were only a few blocks from each other.

I first met Wayne two decades ago at a community meeting, at the local library, in his wheel chair, as usual. The meeting had been called by the Sisters of Providence, Kingston, Ontario, Canada.  They had received calls for help from U.S.-Canadian border organizations who told them of Central American refugees who were waiting at the U.S.—Canadian border, desperately hoping for help to get across.  These refugees were being temporarily cared for at the border by various U.S. charities, desperately hoping for help from Canadians.  While Wayne could not become directly involved in refugee assistance, he was intensely interested in whatever effort could be made. I, personally, kept Wayne informed of our follow-up aid.

Running was a pastime for me then, so I would often run over to Wayne’s.  He had enough strength at the time to wheel himself considerable distances, but since electric wheelchairs had not yet become available, I would often push him around town.

I was then retired and I worked part time for the St. Vincent de Paul Society.  They had a warehouse that provided household necessities for the poor and a kitchen that supplied mid-day meals for the needy.   Our warehouse and kitchen was only a few blocks from Wayne’s house.   Often I would stop in and tell Wayne about the day-to-day activities of the Sisters, about the numerous street people and all the anguish and the drama of their lives,   

Wayne has made it a point to be involved in the community’s local politics and always he knew which politicians had integrity. He was quite aware of the rights of handicapped to have access to public places and he refused to let public officials forget that.  He was always deeply involved in the community’s issues, especially the rights of the mentally disabled and we appreciated how he did his best to work with my wife and myself to protect their rights. 

Each of us, in our conversations, had our own strong objections to some of the aspects of the religions in which we had been brought up.  Wayne had been brought up in a different authoritarian religion than I, and he had his reasons to be critical of the religion of his early life.  I had also changed my religious views and we often discussed current religion and what it should really be about.  

Wayne has developed a skill as an artist over the years and he also writes poetry.  Art has a special meaning for him.  Some of his pictures have a message to me.  One special picture Wayne painted for me was of a local, unknown, but very unique old man who had told me his life story in his own way.  Wayne’s depiction captured the poignancy of a very simple man, whose story, as he was able to tell it to me, over and over, had more than its share of suffering. He had no family.  He earned his living when he was old enough to work on a farm, was excluded from normal society, served time in prison and endured brutal hardship. His picture speaks louder to me than words. Wayne’s apartment has a multitude of his original work.  I have four of his works, two of which I can study and they bring back memories, scenes that speak of places and personalities.

 Electric wheel chairs had just become available a few years before we left Kingston and Wayne had acquired one.  They were a real liberation for him, for although he had his own special van, that meant that he always had to have a driver.  The new wheel chair gave him greater access to almost anywhere in the city.  My very special memories of Wayne were to discover him at one of the city’s hospitals.  My wife and I were frequently there, assisting with seniors in aqua therapy, hospice or palliative care. 

When I would often find Wayne at a hospital, he would be there for his own special patients, the ones who had suffered his own kind of accident .  His was a special gift in reaching out to patients who had suffered a fractured upper spinal column. He knew how to speak to a patient in deep despair and pain. A couple of years ago, Wayne sent me a newspaper clipping of one of the patients he had been seeing for several years, one that I had met while still visiting in that hospital.  The patient had sufficiently recovered and had just recreationally jumped from a plane with a parachute!

We saw Wayne this last August. He was in great spirits.  His new wheel chair was smaller than the old ones and faster too.  He told us where to meet him at a restaurant and he was there before us! We had dinner together, probably for the last time, since I’m now 87. He had just recently completed a book of pictures and poems.  The following is part a poem, written in his own way, to conserve typing.  It is from his book,  SOUTH OF SIXTY---POEMS BY WAYNE WESTFALL                    ( http://members.kos.net/waynew/ ).

              HEARTBEAT  FOR  MY  FRIEND  CLIFF   Mar. 6/08

we walked and rolled all over town

telling jerks to straighten up

and fly right

a few did

they didn’t know u could

fix anything

then we sat and talked religion

how often we mourned its

modern emptiness 

god in his turn has guided u

 almost home

u r still a big man cliff

with a heart that will love

beyond its last

beat

what could be better

Yes, what could be better than to have a friend like Wayne?

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