Drinking coffee to avoid kool-aid.

Sitting in a coffee shop with a friend of a friend. Let's call her Norma.

Norma is telling us the story of a younger colleague of hers, who called yesterday to ask for help. She needs to be away from work for a few weeks starting… now. That young mom has to stay at the bedside of her (formerly) healthy 8-year-old son who, out of the blue, had a massive, massive stroke. Two surgeries and the ordeal has not stabilized yet.

I wish it was the first time that, since the lockdowns, I hear in real life such stories of kids getting diseases that are catastrophic even by octogenarians standards. But it isn't.

I listen deeply and say as softly as I can… “Children that young do NOT have strokes. Not out of the blue like that”.

Blank stare. No reaction. She blinks,  reboots, and goes back to describing in detail how she is being so nice to her colleague in these tough times.

It is then that I remember being told a couple years ago by our common friend that Norma had made her own kids get the pokeypoke too.

Of course.

I shut up and express my admiration for her compassionate support of her colleague.

At least the coffee is good enough. I drink four cups of it. Better that than talking. I feel so alone in that crowded café, at that crowded table.

May God have mercy on us all.