A really bad day

Like most people, I’ve had many more good days than bad. So why are the bad days so prevalent in my memory than the good ones? And why can’t I forget them?

The first bad day I can remember happened when I was only 6 years old. I lost my best friend. Even though he was 11, we played together almost every day. At the funeral, Mom and Dad cried. I cried too, even though I really didn’t really understand death at the time. I just missed my best friend and wondered when he would come back and play. He never did. That was a bad day.

Another bad day was when Down the Street Bully Brad pummeled me for the first time. We had just moved to 110 Flamingo Street a month earlier. He knocked me off my bike, tore my shirt and gave me my first bloody nose. Walking away he said, “Welcome to the neighborhood, kid.” I realized then that some people don’t need a reason to be mean; they just are.

The first day of classes my eighth-grade year was another really bad day. I was attending Briarwood High, home of the mighty Buccaneers, and should have been happy, but I wasn’t. During the summer, horrible acne had visited my face and had decided to stay.

I had to endured comments like “Moon face,” “Crater face” and “Puss factory.” All the girls averted their eyes and walked on the other side of the hallway. By the end of the day my self-esteem was gone. I decided then I would never make fun of the way anyone looked; except my brothers, of course.

Mrs. Steel, the hardest math teacher at Briarwood, presented me with an F for my efforts at understanding Algebra II my senior year. Now that was a bad day. No amount of pleading on my part would make her change my 69 to a 70.

Briarwood had long since been torn down, but that F appeared on my report card and to this day is still a part of my permanent record. For some reason, math teachers are really persnickety about numbers.

Anytime you have to appear in court, it’s gonna be a bad day, especially if you’re going through a divorce. To be honest, my divorce really wasn’t a bad day. It was more like a bad year.

It seems we focus more of our energy on bad days than good. Put me at the top of the list, because I’m guilty of this charge. But I met a man the other day that changed this in me, and he wasn’t even aware that he did.

This man had every reason to hate life. He never did say, but I knew that he had had a lot of bad days. The fates had dealt him obstacles that even Hercules could not overcome. But somehow he had.

With a slight hobble in his gait and a smile across his face, he entered the room. Most of us work because we have to, and most of us don’t enjoy what we do. But standing before The Wife and me was a man who actually seemed to.

It took 30 minutes for him to fit me with my arm brace. It would have taken a lot less time if he hadn’t been so engaging. He told us funny stories that swept the worries from both our minds. Now thinking back, I believe that was his intention. When he turned to leave the room, I asked him, “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

Nonchalantly he answered, “I’ve had 21 back operations.” Then he pointed to The Wife and smiled, “Now make sure he wears the sling and doesn’t overdo it. I don’t want to have to fit him for another brace.”

The Wife and I exchanged glances as he closed the door. I had just spent the last 30 minutes complaining about my arm, my one operation and how much pain I was still in.

On the drive home, reality finally settled in. The man had endured 21 operations and still had a great outlook on life. He had turned all of his bad days into something good. His chosen job was helping others through pain — something he is still all too familiar with.

At that moment, all my memories of bad days started to dissolve, and I realized how lucky I truly am. I’ve really never had a bad day.