The day a stranger took care of me, and I got to take care of him.
It was the last of too many trips: five countries in four months. And I don’t even like to travel.
The final trip was to Panama City, where I was receiving stem cell treatment for spine decline (see my Instagram for proof of why my back needs extra help). It was my second visit to the Institute, and the familiarity of the process was comforting. I knew the gym would be open when I woke on early East Coast time. I knew which coffee shop started brewing at 6 a.m. The concierge remembered me and my commitment to finding healthy, simple food. I knew the first day of treatment would feel like the flu, and that on the second I’d shake like a leaf for an hour afterward. Nothing threw me. I had seen it all with my first round of cells three years ago.
This time I arrived in the middle of my book-writing workshop, during Sprintapalooza. That’s the four-week block when we gather online and write in silence during set periods of the day. Writing, writing, and more writing, with emotional support just a keyboard away. I came armed with books, research papers, outlines, notes, and the working manuscript. The first three days had been relatively productive. I say relatively because a key chapter needed extra time, prayer, and reflection, so I could be sure it was God at the wheel and not me. I had just finished that draft and was looking forward to two morning treatments, then a free afternoon to start a whole new chapter. Fresh topic. So exciting.
I was hard at work and concentrating beautifully (could the stem cells already be giving me extra clarity?) when the room started shaking. Not the vibration you sometimes feel when a vacuum is running, though that thought did cross my mind. Rumbling. And it didn’t stop. 9/11 flashed through my head. Then “earthquake.” I have an odd little superpower. I can spin out an emergency plan pretty much on the spot. So I spun one.
I grabbed my carry-on, which for some reason I had kept right under my desk this trip. In it were my passport (another unusual move, since I usually keep it in the room safe), my wallet, and my computer. As I ran into the hall, a hotel housekeeper was yelling. I touched her arm and motioned for her to follow me down the evacuation stairs. I always know where the exits are, so I knew exactly where we needed to go. Those seventeen flights taught me a new lesson: don’t take a room on a high floor. It doesn’t pay off in moments like this. As we went down, more guests joined us in the stairwell. Everyone was calm. No one talked. All you heard was the scuff of running feet.
On the street it was just like the movies. Sirens, horns, people everywhere. It was hot, the still kind of hot that beats down on you. There was a tree here and there, but even the park across the boulevard was mostly open air. My knowledge of earthquakes is limited, but I remembered two things: aftershocks and tsunamis. I thought about both as I sat looking across the water toward the Panama Canal. Then I pulled out my iPhone and kept planning.
Within minutes I was in an Uber headed to the airport, changing my flight on the way. It had been booked for the next day, after my final treatment. Forget that now. The driver spoke no English, so as we came up on a bridge I motioned for him to put all the windows down and explained through an AI translator that if we ended up in the water, we’d want to be able to get out of the car easily. Halfway across, the car started pitching back and forth. It didn’t let up for at least five minutes. An aftershock, or a second earthquake. I texted my driver: “I am a Christian. Maybe you are too. We are in this together and will take care of each other.” He nodded and pointed to his chest. Christian, too.
As it turned out, the airport was closed when we arrived. Another aftershock had hit, a 7.0, and they had shut it down. I hadn’t counted on that. I was going by what the online flight information was telling me. Bad move. I should have seen that one coming. More contingency planning. If I wanted the driver to wait with me until the airport reopened, he would need gas, and I figured we both needed water and a bathroom. Always thinking, that’s me.
I told the driver I would pay for the gas, and he asked how much I could pay. I told him to fill the tank. He looked surprised. When it was full, I handed my credit card to the attendant. Tank filled. Check. It was a roadside station, but this was no time to be germ-conscious. He got the key from the attendant, asked me to wait, and went in first, making sure it was safe and clean, I guess. Wow. So much I hadn’t seen coming that day. I pulled four bottles of water from the vending machine and we headed back to the airport. By the time we got there, it had reopened.
I gave the driver all the cash I had with me. He texted me this, in translation: “My wife is pregnant and we live with my mother. I didn’t know how I was going to feed my family tonight.”By then, tears were rolling down my cheeks. I texted back, “See? God always shows up one way or another.”
As for the rest of the day? More aftershocks kept the airport opening and closing, shuffling all of us outside and back in again. My flight was canceled, and the next one was delayed two hours. I made friends. Strangers loaned me chargers. Thanks to those chargers, my new chapter got its afternoon after all, just in an airport terminal instead of at my desk.
Of course, not everyone was on saint behavior. There was the one guy who jumped the long line at the only food kiosk still open, and the kiosk itself, which had special “earthquake pricing”: $48 for a hot dog so awful I threw it out after two bites. Not cool, either one.
But everyone else? They showed up. And so did God. He always does.