A Shovel in our Hands
A funeral
In a small town outside of Seattle, a funeral was announced and held, like so many that day. This one was for a boy, a boy of 19 years, who came from Colorado. A boy I knew.
Vik was a neighbor's son, whom I met after moving into the neighborhood several years ago; he was a freshman in high school then. I had only met with his parents a couple of times, initially when the 18-wheel moving truck showed up in front of our new-to-us house on a quiet street in Colorado Springs. Vik’s dad walked across the street, was friendly enough, and noted he was a Navy veteran. Our conversation resulted in us discovering we had served at the same hospital in Bethesda, albeit at different times.
Chores
Vik was responsible for snow shoveling his driveway and that of the neighbor, an older man with a wife who had suffered a stroke and, much of the time, attended to her needs. I was always out early with the snow since I had to get to the hospital early, and would see him out with a similar shovel pushing piling flakes from the sky off to the side. I’d occasionally help him with the neighbor’s driveway, which he’d acknowledge with a smileless nod, not turning off his headphones, which were constantly in his ears.
A couple of years after moving in, Vik’s parents separated, with a difficult and contentious divorce. I saw Vik at different times, when he was staying with his mom across the street, or when coming back from his father’s place, 15 miles away. There was strain on his face that year, and you could see he was haggard, with his long brown hair pulled back underneath a green baseball cap faded and frayed at the edges, and an omnipresent brown, stained Rolling Stones sweatshirt. I felt incredibly bad for him, but never had the chance to intercept him to see how he was doing or how he was faring with the stresses only youth endure, inflicted by elders.
Changes
However, several months later, I noted Vik was different. I saw him leaving his house early, with a white cook’s shirt on, blue Dickey pants, without the Stones sweatshirt. His mother had apparently moved back east, leaving Vik, now a junior in high school, alone in the house. A neighbor who knew his mother relayed that Vik was now working as a short-order cook at one of the local restaurants and was planning to go to a culinary academy once he finished at the local high school. I was happy for him, for finding something he could both enjoy and look forward to in the coming years. And indeed, the next time I saw him, he was dressed in the cook’s shirt and Dickeys, but had abandoned his hat, and had an intensity of expression as he got into the Chrysler minivan, which served as his transport.
The snow
One morning in January, we had gotten about six inches of snow the night before, and I dutifully had arisen to clear the driveway of the wet, not-so-usual Colorado champagne powder. I noticed Vik’s van was covered in snow, and then saw him come out of the garage, creating a silhouette of a cross from the outside lights, as he trudged to his car holding a shovel. He didn’t acknowledge me as he arrived at the back of his minivan. He shoveled only where the tire tracks would be, barely cleared off the windows, and got in, starting the car.
I watched him, anticipating he wouldn't make it past the tire tracks. And indeed, his small 15-inch tires began to slide once he hit the deeper snow. I walked over and saw Vik, his eyes staring straight ahead, almost in a trance. I knocked on the window twice, and finally, he turned his head, looking at me with wide eyes.
“I have to get to work. I don’t know what to do,” he said flatly.
“Ok, let’s get you some traction. Don’t move and I’ll be back,” I noted.
I grabbed some kitty litter from my garage and brought it back to the minivan. Vik had gotten out of the car and stared blankly at the front wheels. As I shoveled out the wheels both in front and back, I showed Vik how to lay down the kitty litter to provide traction both forward and back. He didn’t say a word, and continued the almost catatonic state, not moving. After finishing, I heard him almost whisper, “I don’t know what to do...I don’t know what to do...I don’t know what to do.”
I gently instructed him to get in the car, which was still running, and told him to shift the car in reverse to get him out of the rut he’d created in the snow. Once he’d done that, I told him to put the car in low and then accelerate to get momentum that would hopefully get him past the biggest drifts and subsequently into the main street, which was already somewhat plowed. Without response, he gently accelerated and then picked up speed, getting to the street and was on his way.
Relief
I was, of course, pleased I could help Vik, but was certainly concerned about his reaction to the stress. The Colorado sun came out later in the day, and by the time I’d come back from the hospital, the roads were easily passable. That evening, there was a knock on the door, and it was Vik. He’d never come to our house before, so I invited him in, but he only stood in the foyer.
“I wanted to thank you for your help this morning. If it hadn’t been for you, the restaurant wouldn’t have opened. My boss said I was the only one who made it in.”
I brushed off his thanks, and just noted I was happy he was able to get to his job.
“You don’t understand. I didn’t know what to do. When I don’t know, I freeze up; sometimes it can be like that for a long time. I was scared it was what was going to happen.”
“Vik, now you know how to handle these types of situations,” I said, gently. “You can think your way out if you give yourself a chance. If you run into things like this again, we’re just across the street.”
He shook my hand warmly, thanking me once again. All I could think about was he was a kid, alone in a world where his parents were miles away, dealing with issues that he might or might not be able to handle despite any outward appearance.
I only saw Vik a couple more times, and only in passing, but he’d smile and wave at me from his minivan; after his parents had sold the house, I never saw him again. I found out he’d moved to the Seattle area to attend culinary school, the choice of which was due to a girlfriend who was going to college in the same area.
Fruition
I had gotten back from work, from a day where it had been particularly challenging; within the last couple of hours before leaving, I had to treat three patients with significant substance abuse disorders who were continuing their usage despite being in the hospital multiple times from kidney failure, liver failure, stroke and the like.
My neighbor stopped me as I was walking into my house, and almost blurted out that Vik had died, and there would be a memorial service the next weekend for those who knew him locally.
I was stunned. The flood of memories came back, and I felt a pit in my stomach.
“What did he die of?” I asked, with my clinical facade.
“He died by his own hand,” said my neighbor. “He was depressed. It’s so sad.”
I thanked her for telling me, and went into my house, and stood in my foyer where Vik and I had stood months ago.
I was sick, so I had noted his state when he was stressed that time in the snow, and should have pursued this further to be sure his psychological state was being cared for. I was angry; I had treated patients that day who had abused drugs and came into and left out of the hospital countless times, only to come back in for self-inflicted pathologies. I was depressed that such a young life was snuffed out, for what reason or what fate that could have caused it unbeknownst to us.
I closed my eyes and breathed heavily. I realized this was Vik’s karma and my own coming together. That the universe was telling me that our compassion needs to extend to everyone in all circumstances, from repeat substance abusers to boys of 19, for all who suffer, including ourselves. And that perhaps some of our efforts need to extend further, particularly for those of us who might be trained to know our mental states can be fragile, and that we might be able to intervene. And while Vik had made a choice because he could no longer tolerate the strain of his circumstances, those of us who knew him might be able to live better because we can appreciate that we create our own fetters in this world, that we hold the key to release, and that we are lucky enough to know this.
And that we might see Vik in the clouds in the sky, or in a mountain flower, or in the champagne powder of Colorado, with a shovel in our hands.
Gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate, bohdi svaha.
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