Wyatt

Gun’s Quote-of-the-Week:

“Gun, I think I broke my foot.”

-John Blesz

That was how my night started on Friday, after a long week at Boys State held in Warrensburg, MO. As you may have heard me say on previous Gun’s Quotes in years’ past, Missouri Boys State is one of the finest – if not the finest – leadership experience for young men in the nation.

John, who was the City Counselor for Ingle City that week, was running after some participants (we call them citizens) who were causing a ruckus at the end of the week. He tripped over a trashcan left in the hallway and went flying into a steel door frame.

Now, mind you, John has a 6’5” frame weighing nothing less than 230 lbs. He’s played college football for Loras College in Dubuque, IA. There’s no question that he has powered through some pain in his life. Yet, when I saw him in his room, he was reeling and screaming like a baby.

He told me the story of how this happened while I used the bag of ice I brought up to try to slow the swelling of a size 14 foot that was quickly growing a lump about the size of a baseball. There was blood from a toenail that was bent all the way back. We have a doctor or two on staff, and I called both of them to get their opinion on what to do next. Both were of the opinion that a break was very likely and it was time to go to the ER.

John didn’t want to do this, of course. It was Friday night at Boys State, the most special night of the entire program. There, City Counselors would wrap up what happened during the previous week and talk about their collective experiences. It was their last opportunity to directly inspire the citizens to go out and do something with what they had learned over the course of the week. It was also an opportunity to reflect on everything they had accomplished, despite any of the adversity that they brought in to the program. Friday night is a touching, heart-felt night and John wanted to be a part of it.

After the ice numbed-down his foot enough to get up on crutches, John hobbled over the door and addressed his City one last time before jumping in to my car for a trip to the hospital. After a few brief comments, he simply explained that he will be back as soon as he can to offer a final word to his City.

The Emergency Room was littered with a bunch of people that frankly didn’t look like they were having much of an emergency. We must have looked pretty goofy, considering that a former football player was hopping on one foot with his shoulder wrapped around a scrawny 5’8” guy like myself. (His crutches were too short and he decided it better to hop on one leg holding on to me instead of trying to use them.) We made our way to the front desk and checked in. After that, we moved off to the side and propped John’s foot on a table. I replaced the same bag of ice I had earlier on his foot and we sat around and talked about life for a solid 45 minutes or hour. I didn’t know John that well but we certainly got to know each other better as we spoke about how Boys State went for each of us that week, our families, our friends and life in general.

The ice bag, naturally, had a giant hole in it. In the time of our conversation, a large puddle of water appeared on the floor. I went off to the restroom to pull some paper towels to clean it up. While there, a young man in the emergency room started talking to John.

Wyatt was a 6^th-grader, eleven years-old and walking with a prosthetic left leg. His right leg was braced and it was clear he had some difficulty getting around. While I was in the bathroom, Wyatt introduced himself to John by giving him a small letter. It simply read “Get well soon!” and instructed John to turn the paper over. Wyatt drew John a picture.

Suddenly, the highly-upset and grimacing John perked up. For a moment, he had forgotten that he was missing his last opportunity to inspire his citizens (and that he had perhaps broken his foot) and focused on playing with Wyatt instead. John started drawing pictures with Wyatt and talking about what he liked to do. “Legos” Wyatt said. Eventually Wyatt revealed that he liked root beer and John wandered off in to the labyrinth of the hospital looking for a vending machine that had root beer. He eventually came back with two A&Ws, a bag of popcorn and an apple fritter. Wyatt admitted that he didn’t like Apple, but gladly ate the whole bag of popcorn and downed the entire bottle of A&W, saying, “I haven’t had dinner tonight.”

At some point in the evening, I got a phone call by Tim, the Dean of Operations at Boys State and a world-class neurologist who was one of the two doctors that looked at John and said that he should go to the hospital earlier that night. Tim wanted to know how he was doing. “He’s being a City Counselor,” I said. “He’s mentoring a young boy who is here in the emergency room lobby.”

Wyatt was in the emergency room lobby because his brother had put his arm through a window and needed stitches. Wyatt explained that their family’s landlord was too cheap to put screens on the windows. (Although I have to admit I’m not quite sure how that keeps one from putting their arm through a window.) It was about that time that Wyatt’s family was called back in to the Emergency Room, and everyone got up to leave. “Ma’am?” John asked to Wyatt’s mom. “I’d be happy to watch him out here while you are in the back.” Wyatt’s mom, a plump, homely-looking woman who bore the wrinkles of life’s problems on her forehead said that it would be fine.

Wyatt and John continued to draw and talk about Legos, what Wyatt wants to do when he grows up and his favorite class in school. They enjoyed each other’s company until it was finally John’s time to go back in to the ER… a mere two hours later. Wyatt wanted to go back with John and, naturally, John let him.

While in the room, the nurse informed us that three charts were ahead of us, and that it would probably be 45 minutes before the doctor could see us. John looked at me. “Gun,” he said, “Call Jay and check to see where the City is.”

Jay was John’s Assistant City Counselor. In John’s absence, Jay was running the meeting. “There are three or four left,” Jay said, referring to the number of citizens left to give their “goodbye” speech to everybody else.

“We’re leaving,” John said. Then he turned around and headed for the exit.

“Leaving?” We had waited three hours for X-Rays, and now, John wanted to go back to his City.

“Gun,” he said, “The experiences of tonight can’t go unsaid. I have to tell my City about this.” I empathized with him; I knew the importance of the night’s events.

We made our way up two flights of stairs, John’s arm around my shoulders, to the area where John’s City was gathered. We got to the door when the citizens literally all stood up to go to bed. I opened the door and yelled, “Wait!” The citizens all turned around and saw John and immediately applauded with cheers and shouts of joy.

John made his way to the front of the room, with the smell of sweaty 17-year-old teenage boys and pizza lingering quite strongly in the air and the air conditioner that couldn’t keep up rumbling in the background.

“Gentlemen,” John started off in saying. “I want to talk to you about what has happened to Gun and I for the last three hours.”

He told the story of how upset he was when he left. He was upset that people were goofing around and he was upset that he was stupid enough to chase them. He was upset that he thinks he has a broken foot and he was upset that the hospital still hasn’t looked at him even after three hours. Then he talked about Wyatt. He pulled out the drawing and letter that Wyatt made for him. Then he talked about Wyatt and his prosthetic leg, his leg brace, the fact that his landlord was a cheapskate and the fact that he hadn’t eaten dinner that night. Wyatt’s circumstances, John explained, “aren’t very good.” Then he talked about how Wyatt had goals and dreams just like any other ordinary kid. He talked about how it was going to be so very hard for him to be able to achieve them.

He then finished with explaining to his City that they have the ability to go out and do great things because they are uninhibited by so many of the same constraints. He told them to help change the world, to make it better for people like Wyatt and others who need help and need somebody to lift them up because in some cases they simply cannot do so themselves. The lights were turned off as John asked them to meditate on the many gifts that they had – that they received over the course of the last week – and on the obligation that they had to use those gifts to help their world. I couldn’t see many faces, but I heard many sniffles and the occasional nose-blowing. These young men quickly realized that John’s fate that night was inspired by some higher-power and that, in fact, a deeper meaning was behind John’s injury. John acknowledged this fact as well.

“I told Wyatt that I would be back to say goodbye to him.” John finished.

After a moment of silence, a citizen piped up and said, “Then get out of here!”

Cheers and applause burst out as citizens stood up thanking John for his week’s worth of service and helping them to understand the importance of living their lives to the fullest. He got hugs from everybody, despite his pain and the fact that many of them were sweating profusely and without shirts. (You have to be a part of Boys State to understand…) They made their way to bed. He made his way to my car, sitting outside.

It was in this moment that I lost it. “John,” I said, “I’ve been wanting to witness the Friday night meeting for 10 years now…” I couldn’t finish. I haven’t been part of Friday night meetings because my role at Boys State doesn’t involve a City. We cried and hugged each other in my car, both emotionally moved from the evening and the events that transpired.

It was past one in the morning when we pulled up to the Emergency Room portico on the hospital. John told me he could make it in on his crutches. I parked the car.

By the time I got inside, John was leaning against the men’s room door, sobbing. I rushed over to him, noticing that the lobby was empty and that there was no sign of Wyatt’s family. I held his shoulder and hugged him.

John wept.

Eventually the sobs grew and he lost his strength to stand. Falling backwards, I grabbed him underneath the shoulders and caught him soon enough to keep him from crashing to the ground. I got him to a sitting position. Then he lost the strength to sit up and his torso fell backward. I caught him so that his head wouldn’t slam against the concrete floor. Now lying on his back, he covered his face with his hands as the sobs grew louder. Tears dripped on the tile.

John wept.

The receptionist, not knowing what was going on, had a security officer come in to the lobby. He looked and once he had noticed that John’s sobs were not related to an injury, simply allowed us to be.

“Pick me up,” John said. I grabbed him from underneath the shoulders again and pulled him up to his foot while his maimed one dangled helplessly in the air. We made our way over to John’s wheelchair that was left in the hospital when we departed early for the City. Suddenly, I realized what caused John’s distress. There, sitting in the wheelchair was a letter from Wyatt. It simply read, in sixth-grade chicken-scratch, “See you, Bubby. I think you are the best of my friend.”

My jaw dropped. I took the letter, gently, and sat it on the table so that John could sit down. He fell in to the chair and I wheeled him over to the receptionist. He had to go through the registration process all over again. As he stuttered through the registration, health insurance and medical history questions, I gathered all of the pictures and letters that were left in the Emergency Room lobby. Wyatt’s bottle of A&W was gone.

“Are you in pain?” the receptionist asked, sheepishly.

John briefly broke a smile. “No, ma’am,” he said.

“It’s obvious something is wrong,” she said, attempting to address the white elephant now standing in the room.

“Ma’am,” John said, “Can you tell me who that family was that was in here earlier, the one with the kid who put his arm through the window?”

“No,” she said, “HIPPA prohibits that.”

“I understand,” was John’s simple response.

“Can you tell me if they are still here?”

“No.”

“I understand.”

Nobody came to the Emergency Room while John and I were back at the City, so we were wheeled back in to his room in less than a half-hour.

The nurse took basic vital signs and then left us alone, John in his wheelchair and me sitting next to him. John’s face fell in to the palms of his hands.

John wept.

Sitting there with him, alone, I once again put my arm on his shoulder as I tried, in vain, to console him. Eventually, we prayed together, praying for Wyatt, praying for John’s City and praying for John’s healing. At our conclusion, the doctor entered the room and looked at John’s foot.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Looks like you have quite the toe stub, there.”

The observation was an irritation after a long and emotional night. John gave me the look of a person caught in absolute disbelief. I almost laughed.

“Sir,” John said, his face now stern, “I have to tell you I’m a bit more concerned about my foot.” He threw his other foot on to the examination table so that the doctor could see the clear size difference between his two feet.

“Oh!” the doctor exclaimed, now realizing that X-Rays were in order.

For whatever it’s worth, they came back negative. John got painkillers, a dressing on the stubbed toe, crutches that actually fit him and a CD of the X-Rays for his family practitioner to look at later. We got back to his City where his Assistant City Counselors were waiting for him. One of his citizens who got up early to workout that morning greeted him as well. I gave him all of the drawings and letters that Wyatt made. We hugged one last time and I went back to my room.

The sun was coming up and the birds were chirping as I finally hit my pillow. I sat my alarm and chuckled to myself, seeing that the alarm was a mere hour away. It was going to be a rough day. That’s OK, I thought, because it was worth it. On this night, I helped a friend in need and grew closer to him. While doing so, I got to witness a God-inspired event that touched the lives of 60-some teenaged men, a disabled boy and, of course, my friend himself. It was John’s selfless act of kindness towards this young boy, even during intense pain, which reflects the program that I return to year after year so that the tradition of inspiring leadership and service to the next generation can continue on.

Leadership and service exemplified by John Blesz.

…and that’s why it’s a Gun’s Quote!