Scenes from a Mexican Restaurant

The Mexican restaurant was crowded. There were twinkly lights. Terracotta tiles everywhere. Trumpet music.

I was sitting next to Morgan Love, trying to make her laugh. Getting Morgan to laugh, as it turns out, is easy.

Morgan is a UAB student who has become a dear friend. I don’t know how my wife and I became friends with a college girl, but there you are.

Morgan is pretty quiet. But I have always liked quiet people. You never know if they’re floating in a daydream, or carrying the weight of the world upon their shoulders. In Morgan’s case, it’s both.

I first met Morgan a few years ago, when I wrote about her. Morgan is an exceptional kid. An A-student. On the president’s list. And she pulls it off while being low vision, paralyzed on her left side, prone to seizures, and a brittle diabetic.

Her digestive system is partially paralyzed, too. Thus, she is on a permanent feeding tube and cannot eat solid food. She hasn’t eaten real food in months.

Tonight, this quiet young woman was my special guest at the theater where I performed my one-man spasm. After the show, I took her backstage. She stuck close to my side, shadow-like. I introduced her to the band, the sound guy, the theater manager. I let her play the piano some, and—God help her—even the accordion.

Then, several of us came to the restaurant for our traditional post-show supper. I had been in rehearsals all day, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But I still didn’t want to eat in front of her.

“It doesn’t seem fair,” I said, “eating in front of you.”

“Please,” she said. “I go to restaurants with my friends, I’m used to it.”

“Are you sure?” I said, gazing at my steaming burrito, feeling like a consummate fool.

“I’m sure.”

Morgan misses food. So much so that her teeth have started to ache because of the lack of solid food. The feeding tube only feeds her intestines, not her stomach. Thus, her stomach is always empty. Not a pleasant sensation.

And yet she is among the happiest of humans I’ve ever met. People are drawn to her. When Morgan Love’s quiet energy enters a room, you know it.

But she misses normalcy. Sometimes she watches old videos of herself on her phone, and even though she doesn’t say it, I think she grieves for Old Morgan.

“But then I always remind myself,” she says, “this is all happening for a reason.”

“What reason is that?” I asked, still staring at my stupid burrito.

“This is all happening so I can help people.”

“How are you going to do that?”

She smiles. “Well, I changed my major to pre med.”

“You want to be a doctor?” I say.

She nods.

The waiter brought Morgan some fried ice cream, covered in chocolate syrup. She couldn’t eat the fried shell—too much roughage. But she could eat the ice cream. With her non-paralyzed hand, she used her spoon.

And I just watched the quiet beauty at my side, as conversations in the average, small-town restaurant ebbed and flowed. I was arrested with awe, and respect, for the miracle of this magnificent young woman.

At the end of the night, we dropped Morgan Love off at her dorm. College kids passed us on the sidewalk, busy and self-important, as only college kids can be. The young people unknowingly brushed by UAB’s resident saint without realizing how close to greatness they were.

I gave Morgan a big hug. She hugged me tightly.

“Goodnight,” said the quiet young woman.

“Goodnight, Doctor Love,” said I.