The Very Remarkable Morgan Love

I arrived at the UAB dorms to pick up 19-year-old Morgan for our day together. It was noon when I came cruising into the parking area, driving a 24-year-old truck that looks like a repurposed septic tank on wheels.

My truck is not a thing of beauty—in the traditional sense. There is rust on the fenders. The tires are bald. The paint job, which was at one time burgundy, is now the color of an infected blood blister.

I had spent an hour cleaning the old Ford’s interior prior to my arrival. Namely, because you cannot expect a dignified young lady to ride in a truck with canine nose-slobber marks on the windows, crumpled Frito bags on the floorboards, and scattered petrified Corn Nuts which predate the Bush Administration.

I know my truck must have made an impression on Morgan because when she stepped inside she said, “Wow.”

This is the normal reaction to my truck.

We sped through Birmingham’s gridwork of busy streets while Morgan held the safety handle tightly. Admittedly, I am not the greatest driver. I learned to drive when I was 14 in my uncle’s ‘77 Chevette. My uncle was a famous cigar smoker who would say things like, “Don’t slow down, this is just a crosswalk!”

So as we careened through Birmingham, Morgan offered many helpful driving tips:

“Um, I don’t think you can turn left on a red light.”

“...Actually, I think this was supposed to be a one-way street.”

“Uh, did you run over a pedestrian? Never mind, you just grazed her. She’s getting up.”

For our day together, we went for a walk in the woods at Red Mountain Park. It was perfect weather. There were people hiking, riding bikes, and having picnics. Morgan, who just underwent abdominal surgery a week ago, kept a spritely pace on the trail. I was struggling to keep up.

Last week, her doctors could not believe she was up and walking around only two hours after her six-hour surgery. But that’s just how Morgan is.

She’s a strong kid who has undergone dozens of surgeries throughout her life. She has lived in hospitals. She was on life support, not that long ago.

“Being on life support changed everything for me,” she said. “It changed my perspective on life. I learned how quickly everything can change. And I learned that if you don’t live your life right now, you might never get the chance to.”

When our walk was over, we went to get ice cream at Big Spoon Creamery. Morgan is on a permanent feeding tube. She is unable to eat solid food, and there is no need to eat food. Ice cream is all she can eat right now.

“I eat ice cream, like, three times a week. Maybe more.”

We walk into the Big Spoon Creamery, and Morgan somehow makes friends with the girl behind the counter. They have a long conversation, they laugh a lot, although they are complete strangers.

And I’m getting the feeling Morgan makes friends wherever she goes.

“I do make friends wherever I am,” she says. “I think it’s because when I was in middle school, it was hard being the only disabled kid.

“I had few friends. People my own age wouldn’t approach me, I think they were afraid to talk to me, maybe because I was different, or because I always had a school nurse with me. That’s why I try to make friends wherever I go.”

We finish our respective ice creams. On our ride home, I only drive over two curbs.

“Goodness,” said Morgan, stepping out of my truck, onto solid ground.

We stand at the dorm entrance, and we say goodbye. And I am still as impressed by this young woman as I was the first day I met her. She is a pre-med math major, a Delta Gamma sorority sister, on the president’s list, and has a mountain of friends. I’m just one more.

Before I leave, I ask Morgan what makes her so strong. How has she surmounted so many obstacles yet remained so cheerful?

“Honestly, I don’t know how I’ve survived my own life,” she replies, “except for prayer. Prayer is sometimes all I have.”

We hug. And I ask whether she was uttering prayers for survival while riding shotgun in my truck.

She smiles. “Thanks for the ice cream,” she says, edging away from me.

There goes one remarkable kid.