There was one vehicle remaining in the parking lot.
Ours.
It was around 11:15 p.m., raining and bordering on foggy when Jennifer and I finally rolled and walked out of the Midland Center for the Arts. Our wheelchair-accessible van sat alone beneath the parking lot lights.
Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.
Jennifer had given me tickets to see author David Sedaris for my birthday. My birthday is September 24, but the performance wasn’t until October 15.
That gave me three weeks to anticipate seeing one of my favorite authors in person for the first time.
I admire David’s command of the English language and his ability to turn the seemingly ordinary into an engaging, hilarious story. I’ve read so many of his essays over the years, but I wasn’t prepared for how much funnier they would become when he stood onstage and read them himself.
His delivery and impeccable timing brought his storytelling to life.
The evening was everything I had hoped for. He shared side-splitting unpublished essays, pulled the audience into engaging conversations, and left the stage to thunderous applause.
Then the real adventure began.
Apparently, this is the short line
David was signing books after the performance and had promised to stay until every last person’s book was signed.
Jennifer and I had already purchased a copy of The Best of Me, one of my favorite essay collections, and it was ready to go.
There was only one problem.
Whenever we attend events, we are usually among the last people to leave. There’s no sense battling the crowd when Jennifer is navigating in her power wheelchair. We’d rather sit back, let everyone rush for the exits, and make our way out when there’s more room.
That strategy works beautifully unless, of course, there’s a book signing afterward.
I was pleasantly surprised when we reached the auditorium foyer. David was already chatting and signing books, and the line looked like it was only about 40 people deep.
As Jennifer and I made our way toward the end, I asked an usher if we’d reached it.
“Well, this is the end of the short line,” she said almost apologetically.
The short line?
Then we saw it.
The line continued outside the foyer and stretched down the hallway, around the corner. There must have been another 100 people waiting. Jennifer and I made our way past them until we reached our rightful place.
Dead last.
There was something strangely satisfying about it. Here we were, two people living with Multiple Sclerosis, Jennifer in her wheelchair and me standing beside her, knowing full well this was going to be a very late night.
We were in heaven because sometimes this is what makes experiences epic.
Finding another way to wait
We waited. And waited. Every so often, another section of the hallway line was called into the foyer.
Jennifer and I intermittently checked the Dodgers’ playoff score on her cellphone, made small talk with fellow fans, and debated whether our night would end with a post-midnight Taco Bell run.
My MS legs eventually reminded me they’d been standing long enough. This wasn’t our first time dealing with this sort of fatigue.
So, Jennifer cleared off her lap, and I sat down on her.
I always worry I’m going to crush her, so I leaned back carefully.
“Am I too heavy?” I asked.
She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me closer.
“No. It’s cold in here. You’re more like my weighted blanket.”
Perfect.
One of the ushers who had been talking with us spotted us and laughed.
“Looks like you finally found your seat.”
“Actually,” I told her, “I’m Jennifer’s weighted blanket.”
Sometimes adapting to life with MS requires highly sophisticated solutions. Other times, you sit on your wife’s lap.
Whatever works, right?
Six people away
After nearly 90 minutes, we finally made it into the main gathering area.
Ten people ahead of us, then fewer.
There were still books for sale, and at some point I decided that after waiting this long, I apparently needed another one. I bought it and returned to Jennifer.
Six people, and finally it was our turn.
There we were, across the table from one of my favorite essayists.
I watched David give advice to the person in front of us, joking that he sometimes catches himself offering advice people never asked for.
Well, I wanted some.
During the presentation, he had talked about returning to his writing, revising it, changing it, and sometimes creating entirely new endings.
Jennifer and I write essays about our experiences living with MS, and I wanted to ask a question that regularly challenges us:
“How do you know when an essay is finished?”
His answer wasn’t some magical formula we could take home and apply to everything we write.
In fact, that may have been the point. He keeps working at it. Adding. Changing. Adjusting.
The takeaway I heard was essentially this: When you know, you know.
There’s no need to rush.
Finding the right marker
As we talked, a mountain of colored markers sat on the table in front of David.
He wrote our names, signed his, and drew inside our copy of The Best of Me while carrying on the conversation, occasionally sifting through the pile until he found exactly the color he wanted.
Then he’d keep drawing, coloring, and talking.
It felt fitting to watch a writer who had just described continually revisiting his work take the time to find the right marker for a tiny drawing in our book.
Not just any marker.
The right one.
He gave us his time, too. We had watched him engage with everyone ahead of us, never making anyone feel rushed while remaining mindful that others were waiting.
We talked about writing. He shared more stories, and Jennifer offered a perspective on one he is developing that made him laugh.
“I’d never thought of that before,” he told her.
Now, naturally, we’ll have to read everything he publishes from here on out to see whether Jennifer Digmann’s unattributed one-liner somehow makes its way into one of his essays.
Some things are worth the energy
Eventually, we said goodbye to David and to the ushers who had shared pieces of this long, funny night with us.
Then we headed outside. The rain was still coming down. The air was almost foggy.
And there was our van. The last one in the parking lot, aside from the vehicles belonging to people who worked there.
We briefly reconsidered that Taco Bell fourth meal but decided the rainy 35-minute drive home was enough adventure for one night.
We pulled into our driveway a little after midnight.
Hungry because we hadn’t eaten since lunch and wired from an incredible evening, we heated up some leftover chicken and stayed awake well past 2 a.m.
I had to work at 8:30 that morning, but we had absolutely no regrets.
Living with MS has taught Jennifer and me the importance of knowing when to protect our energy. There are times when the smartest decision is to pause, change plans, or call it a night.
But balance doesn’t always mean saying no. Sometimes it means knowing what is worth saying yes to.
We don’t have photographs of ourselves with David Sedaris that night. Photos weren’t allowed, and I’m actually OK with that.
We were too busy experiencing the moments.
I’d much rather have that than remember the moments we missed because we were too busy trying to capture them.
Maybe that’s another lesson I’ll carry from a night spent with one of my favorite essayists: You don’t always have to rush to finish the story.
And, yes, every once in a while, it’s pretty great to be the last ones in line.