“It’s not what you look at that matters. It’s what you see” ~Henry David Thoreau

“Joe,” my mother used to say. “You can’t judge a book by its cover. People look on the outside, but God looks inside. There’s more to a book than its cover.” Mom was a churchgoing person. I wasn’t. One of our divides. I figured if there’s a God up there then why’s the world so messed up down here?

When she’d launch into one of her homespun homilies, I’d just nod and say “Yes ma’am,” then fly out the back door with my dog Boeing to explore. Woods and fields. Just the two of us navigating the world.

An only child, I’ve never been a social person. Flying solo. Don’t like clubs, associations, gatherings. Too many birds crowd a nest.

I was well outside my flight plan attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings at Grace Baptist church. But there was no choice involved. It was part of a plea deal: go to meetings or go to jail. So I made the Thursday trek to a dark downstairs basement and sat in a semicircle of folding chairs. Open prayer. Introduce anyone new. Say whether we stayed clean that week. Recite the 12 steps.

I’m not a druggie or alky. Never been homeless. Top of the class in college. Stint as captain overseeing a control tower at Shaw Air Force base. Air traffic controller for the FAA. Nice house. Nice car. Not even a traffic ticket to my name. My life was on pattern and under control. The only drug I ever used was occasional Tylenol for headaches.

Then came the turbulence with a government shutdown. Congress couldn’t agree on a budget even after weeks of wrangling. Funding expired. Air traffic controllers were essential workers, meaning we were mandated to work, even without pay. They told us it would be a week at most. Not quite. The weeks wore on and patience wore thin. Sickout protests began but I was a manager and had to cover open slots. So I did double shifts, getting four hours of sleep, aware one mistake could mean disaster.

One day I drifted off and lost track of holding patterns. Near collision.

Mike told me over coffee he took Adderall for ADHD. He handed me a couple to try. This was a game changer. Pills kept me flying.

Then we were called for FAA’s random drug tests. I failed. The testing was nationwide and many of us failed. The FAA couldn’t let that many air traffic controllers go. It would mean flight cancellations, airport shutdowns, congressional hearings. The union met with the FAA for a conditional solution: go to Narcotics Anonymous meetings and submit to weekly drug tests to keep our jobs.

When Mom called, I told her what happened. She said sometimes the things you can’t change in life wind up changing you for the better. Whatever. This was a waste of time. I made a mistake. I wasn’t going to repeat it.

Wouldn’t you know it? A week later the shutdown was over. But not my meetings. Each Thursday night I gathered with the losers and druggies in that musty basement’s semicircle of folding chairs. I forced out a few words when it was my turn. One more leg on my return flight to life. But I got a kick listening to the stories. It’s amazing how many ways people can screw up their lives.

Judy was the counselor. Pretty, with long brown hair, bright blue eyes, and sympathetic smile. She could dig below the surface. Get the real story. Some good insights too. A few I used as motivational posts at the tower. Folks thought me wise.

John was the old man of our group. Said he was fifty. Looked a lot older, like he was pushing for the grave. Long gray hair always unkempt, bushy white beard branched in all directions, and shabby clothes long out of style. He’d shuffle in, bent over a cane. Find his seat. Settle in with a long groan. Seemed reluctant to release what breath he had left.

Judy limited anyone’s time, for obvious reasons. But one a cold dark wintry night John launched his life story. We were in no hurry to go back into the snow, so she let him run with it. He said he used to be a surgeon at University Hospital. Seemed unlikely, given his appearance. He’d developed stenosis, suffered debilitating pain. Three surgeries and he was no better. He couldn’t bend over to operate and eventually took oxycodone to keep going. Wrote his own scripts. When the board found out, John lost his license. Now he wanders aimlessly through life. Cane in hand, looking back.  

Every rose has its thorn. Wesley was ours. Last to arrive, he’d saunter in with a faded red Phillies baseball cap pulled over his eyes. I wondered if the hat was to hide the bloodshot eyes or that he was going bald. A ponytail of blond hair cascaded back of the hat. His face had two expressions: amusement and disdain.

When Judy asked for his contribution, he’d either mumble “Not tonight” or “I wouldn’t evaluate that one way or another.” We didn’t expect much from Wesley.

Then one night that changed. Old John was busy bemoaning the unfairness of life. Suddenly he slumped over and slid to the floor. Blank eyes stared at the ceiling. Hands clutched his chest. A circle of frozen faces stared. Shocked silence.

Out of left field an old red Phillies cap slid to John’s side. Wesley yelled, “Judy, call 911!” Bent down. Felt for a pulse. Pressed an ear to John’s mouth. He yelled, “John are you all right? Can you hear me?”

John’s stone cold silent. Wesley looked around the circle. “He’s not breathing. I can’t get a pulse. Any of you know CPR?”

If we did, we weren’t about to go face to face with John. Our heads shook with numb denial. Wesley went to work on his own. Tipped John’s head back. Alternated pushing down on John’s chest and breathing into his mouth. We sat there watching Wesley work on John. Time ticked by in scared seconds.

Then the wail of a distant siren. Two EMCs burst through the door. They looked at John and Wesley. One asked, “Wes, what’s going on here?”

He paused long enough to say, “Myocardial infarction. No signs of respiration. We’ll need an AED. Could use some help here.”

One knelt beside Wesley. They took turns breathing and chest pumping. The other pulled a pack out of his bag. Turned some dials and ripped open John’s shirt. Put two metal discs on John’s chest. Shouted “Clear!”

Wesley and the medic leaned back.

The one with the machine hit a red button. John’s body jerked.

Wesley put two fingers against John’s neck. “No pulse. Try again!”

Another charge. John stirred, twitched and coughed.

“I’ve got a pulse!” Wes breathed a few more times into John’s mouth. Yanked his head back when John coughed and started to moan.

Wesley barked, “Get the gurney. Call Memorial. Tell them you’ve got one coming with myocardial infarction. Probably NSTMI. Stabilized in need of emergency care. Got any adrenaline on board?”

John continued groaning like a creaky door on rusty hinges. Wesley grabbed a coat and covered him. They rolled in a stretcher, pulled a handle, dropped it flat to the floor, and lifted John onto the stretcher. Raised it. Snapped it into place. Wheeled John out.

I heard one mutter, “He’s lucky you were here, Wes. Old dog should’ve been a goner.”

And then they were gone. The siren faded back into the night. An aftershock of silence.

Wesley shuffled back to his chair. Sat down. Pulled his hat back down over his eyes. Our eyes were fixed on him. He only stared at the floor. Silence hung in the air like the last star at night before it disappears.

Finally, Judy asked, “Wesley?”

His head lifted slowly. “They’re taking him to the ER at Memorial Hospital. He should be all right. A good team there. If anyone wants to know, you’ll have to go and ask. Won’t get any information over the phone.”

His lips pursed tightly. Then a glance at the clock. “So I guess we’re done here tonight?”

Judy nodded. “OK. Silent prayers for John before we leave. If anyone wants to stay, I’ll wait around to talk about what just happened.”

Nobody moved. Passengers caught in midair, wanting someone to land, needing the rest of Wesley’s story.

Judy tried, “Wesley is there anything you can share that would help us understand what just happened?”

Silence. A long sigh as fingers slowly traced the unshaven jaw.

“I used to be a Senior EMT. Trained the two who came tonight. Answered hundreds of calls. No big deal. Until the address was my mother’s. There she was, unconscious, sprawled out on the kitchen floor. Worked on her for a long time. Tried everything. Finally they pulled me off. She was gone.”

Sad faraway gaze in the eyes. A long look into the past.

“Mom was my life. Understood without me saying a word. Protected me from a drunken dad. Took the blows and barbs aimed at me. Had scars to show for it. When he finally left, her love erased what he beat into me. She made me believe in myself. In life. I wanted to make her proud. Show her it was worth it all. I wanted to save lives. Like she saved mine.”

There was a circle of glistening eyes. All leaning forward in our chairs leaning into the story.

“I saved a lot lives. But I didn’t save the one that mattered most. The one who saved me. Spent long nights wondering. What could I have done differently? Why did God let this happen? No answers came.”

“I saved a lot of lives. But not the one that mattered most. I wound up hating myself. I couldn’t EMT. Couldn’t relive the nightmare. Took oxy, alcohol, anything to numb the pain.”

I found a lump in my throat. My head ducked. I wiped a tear so no one would see. I saw a different Wesley that night. I think we all did.

It’s been a month since and the group is over. I’m back at work. I heard Wesley is too. A hard shell on a deep seed cracked open that night. And something began to grow again. 

I sit in my black leather swivel chair going over updates and schedules. I look down at the runway as planes take off and land. White clouds wander westerly in the azure sky. They slowly morph as they drift. Old shapes form new.

The clouds break. A beam of sunlight lands on a brown window ledge. I see a smudge of gray dust stuck there. It’s ugly and out of place. The cleaners must have missed it.

And then I realize. The smudge is a cocoon. Someday a caterpillar will shed the shroud and a butterfly emerge. Beauty will take wing.

I think of Wesley and how he saved John’s life. The story he shared. My shroud of cynicism finally shed. I think of Mom. She was right. There’s more to a book than the cover. There’s a story inside worth reading.

I think about the woods and Boeing. Gently holding a butterfly in the sunny field. All the wonder of a child. A thought flutters to mind. Maybe that’s how God looks down on all of us and the gray smudges of our lives, waiting patiently for the butterfly to emerge.