Random Acts of Kindness

I had the opportunity this weekend to repay a kindness that was shown to me a few years ago.

Truth be told, I wish I were still indebted. And, in fact, I am, as I will never be able to repay one of the people who showed me that kindness.

It was almost three years ago, and I was attending the wedding of two of my good friends from Wingate, Kelly and Quiz (aka Justin, but we always call him Quiz). Actually, I really became friends with Kelly and Quiz after I graduated, through my friend Randi. I knew them while I was in school, but not well.

Randi and I met my senior year, when she came onto the staff of the Weekly Triangle (our campus newspaper) as a freshman, and quickly became one of my most relied-on writers and soon one of my editors (I was the editor in chief that year). Randi remains one of my closest friends, and after I graduated, she took over as editor. Kelly and Quiz joined the staff and the three became fast friends. Soon, they became my friends too.

But back to the wedding, and my unpaid debt. I had to work the morning of the wedding, then drive a couple of hours to the ceremony in Black Mountain, N.C. Things did not go well at work, and the stress led to a migraine, which even in those days were few and far between, thanks to a good treatment plan to keep them well controlled. That day was an exception.

Feeling the migraine coming on, I took some prescription medication to help abort it as I left work, hoping it would take effect by the time I reached Black Mountain. It did not. Once I got there, I hoped that, if I could sit down in the pew and just be still for awhile, I would get enough relief to make it through the ceremony, then politely bow out of the reception and drive home. That didn’t happen either.

If you’re fortunate enough not to be a migraine sufferer or to know someone who is, you may not realize that some severe migraines will make you violently ill. I had one of those migraines. I made it about halfway through the vows before I had to leave the sanctuary—it was either that or throw up in the middle of a wedding. After spending quite a bit of time paying homage to the porcelain goddess, I found the nursery and curled up on the floor in a fetal position, praying for my stomach to quiet enough for me to drive home.

It wasn’t getting any better, so I decided to just go ahead and try to make the drive. Trouble is, there is a long, long, windy downgrade right outside of Black Mountain on the way back to Charlotte, and not many good places to pull off on the side of the road and get sick if need be. So I made it about halfway down the grade, but had to pull off in a not-so-safe place for, well, you can guess. Once I could drive again, I made it to the next exit, pulled off on a side road, did my thing again, then leaned back in the seat for awhile and hoped again my stomach would settle. It did not.

At this point, I decided I could not make it back home, so I turned around and headed back to Black Mountain, hoping by the time I got back I could call Randi (who was the maid of honor) and the reception might be winding down and she could help me (although I was not really clear-headed enough to know how she would be able to help me). So now I had to go back up that steep grade. Again, I made it about halfway.

This time when I had to stop, I was desperate. I literally could not stop throwing up. I was in tears on the side of the road, because I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t drive home, I had nowhere to stay, and my head hurt so badly I didn’t even have the mental cognizance to try to find a nearby hotel or anything—not that there were a lot of options. At one point, I considered calling 911 and having them send an ambulance because I just wanted to go to the hospital so I could get something for the nausea and the anvil that was splitting my head, but then I didn’t know what they would do about my almost brand-new car, sitting at a very dangerous spot on the side of the interstate.

Finally, I called Randi and to my surprise and great relief, she answered her phone. She was at the reception by that point, and although she couldn’t leave, she said if I could get there, they could find some place for me to curl up until it was done, and then I could come back and stay with her and Kelly’s family at the mountain house they had rented for the weekend. I had only met her family once before, at Kelly’s shower. I felt intrusive staying with them, practically a stranger, on the weekend of their only daughter’s wedding. But I was too sick to have any options.

I had directions to get to the reception hall from the church, but not directly from the interstate. I managed to drive back to the church, and it was still open, so I was able to use the bathroom in there (which is at least slightly better than throwing up out your car door along the side of the road). By that point my stomach was finally empty, and after I sat in the car a few minutes before attempting to drive the rest of the way to the reception hall, I realized my stomach was actually starting to settle just a bit. So I stayed there a good while to let it settle as much as possible before I drove to the reception hall.

By the time I made it to the reception, Randi was starting to wonder what had happened to me, and the whole event was almost over. I curled up in a recliner in the lounge while the bride and groom finished hugging everyone and saying their goodbyes. Someone was playing Beethoven on a piano nearby, and the music helped calm me. For the first time, the splitting pain in my head began to ease, just a little.

Finally, it was time to go. But the mountain house where I would be staying was, well, on top of a mountain, and I was in no shape to drive. So Kelly’s younger brother, Kenneth, drove my car up these narrow, windy roads, with me in the backseat, having to stop every few minutes so I wouldn’t get sick again. We eventually made it, Randi tucked me into bed, and within an hour I think I had managed to fall asleep.

The next morning when I got up, I had the opportunity to thank Kelly’s parents, Cathy and Mike, for letting me stay there, and to enjoy the beautiful view from the house. I was so grateful for them opening their temporary home to me, but when I got back to Charlotte, I got busy and distracted (as I tend to do), and I never followed up with a note of thanks to tell them how much I appreciated it. I have only been as sick as I was that day one other time in my life, and that time I ended up in the emergency room. I do not know if they realized what an incredible kindness they and their son Kenneth showed me.

I saw Cathy and Mike this weekend, and I did everything I could to be there for them in their time of need, as they were for me, but I could not do enough. I did not see Kenneth. I could not repay him his kindness, and I never will.

Kenneth died last Wednesday, at the age of 24. He was in Baltimore, celebrating his birthday with friends. After returning for the night, he took a walk on his own. About half an hour or so later, when he had not returned, his friends went looking for him. They found him unresponsive in an alley beside their hotel, and he died shortly after at the hospital. After a police investigation, they believe he simply fell and struck his head.

Randi and I travelled to Maryland Saturday to be with Kelly and Quiz. Again, I worried that I would be intrusive, invading a family’s private grief, but I needed to be there for my friends. We arrived at the hotel Saturday afternoon, where we were greeted by Kelly, Quiz and Kelly’s parents.

They were all so grateful for our presence, and I was profoundly moved by how much it meant to them, even to Kelly’s parents, who still barely knew me, that we were there. It seemed such a huge thing to them, that we had driven all that way to be there. To us, it seemed such an insignificant effort in comparison to their enormous loss.

I hope that in some small way we were a comfort to them in their grief, though I know it was very small. When I mentioned to Randi this weekend how I had felt intrusive at the wedding, basically inviting myself to their house, she told me, “You didn’t invite yourself. You didn’t know this, but Kelly’s dad was set to carry you from the car to the house if he needed to.”

I do not understand how such kind, caring people, who could without a moment’s hesitation open their arms to a stranger in need, could have such a horrible thing happen to them. Their innate kindness and goodness was reflected in their son, who was also so kind to me, waiting patiently every time he had to stop on the way up the mountain. I remember clearly, as sick as I was, telling Randi how nice Kelly’s brother was when we finally made it up to the house.

The strains of Beethoven I heard as I sat curled up in the lounge at the reception came from Kenneth’s nimble fingers. He had taught himself to play guitar and piano. The piece he played was an impromptu performance, from memory.

I’m really not sure the intent of this post, other than to write something I needed to write. I am not trying to find a purpose in Kenneth’s death—he simply died too young. But this past week has truly affected me, as I mourned a man I barely knew, but who touched my life in a way he never realized, through a simple act of kindness. I know that the next time I see my family, I will hug them a little closer, and when I talk to my friends, I will make sure they know how much I care. When someone is kind to me, I will take the time to thank them.

And I will take time to be kind. It’s the only way I know to honor Kenneth’s memory.