"Help!"

I used to go to an office every day, nine to five, like a proper grown-up with a badge and a parking spot. This was before MS took a toll on Terry. Before Covid rearranged the world, and before “working from home” became a sentence you could say with a straight face. Back then, this was simply called life.

Back then, Terry was still quite mobile. He walked with a cane, yes, but he walked forward, which felt important. Every morning, he got up, got dressed, and drove me to work. Not because I couldn’t drive. Because he wanted the job.

He called himself my chauffeur.

He said it with pride, like he wore a tiny invisible cap and gloves.

Those morning rides were small pockets of joy. Laughter. Half-baked plans. Conversations that wandered nowhere in particular and somehow landed exactly where we needed them to. We would talk about what we might do later, when he picked me up, when the workday folded itself closed and we stepped back into ourselves.

Terry loved that role. It made him feel useful. Helpful. Connected to the flow of the day. He liked having somewhere to be and someone to deliver safely to her destination. He once announced, very seriously, “I am the chauffeur who has nothing to show for it.”

Pause.

Yes. That wordplay landed exactly the way he intended.

He didn’t just chauffeur me. He entertained the building. He talked to anyone getting in or out of the office. He asked questions. He listened. He laughed loudly. People knew him before they knew me, which felt both humbling and deeply accurate.

They liked him instantly.

One afternoon, as I walked out of the office, I witnessed something extraordinary. Terry leaned his head out the driver’s window and called out, “Help!” to each of my coworkers walking ahead of me. “Help me get away before Pepper gets out!”

Apparently, this had been going on for quite some time.

People cracked up. Nobody believed him. Of course not. Who would believe that his petite wife posed any real threat? Still, they played along. They waved. They laughed. They were in on the joke, and Terry was delighted.

Those moments mattered. They still do.

I miss those days. I miss my coworkers. I miss watching Terry turn an ordinary pickup into a small performance, a gift offered freely to whoever happened to be passing by.

It was never just a ride home.

It was connection.

And somehow, it still is.