Dedication

In May 2011 my second eldest nephew, Michael Ursino, died from epilepsy. He was 20.

At age five he was diagnosed with a brain tumour. He survived that.

He survived the chemo, and school, and looking for a job. In fact, Mikey survived anything he put his mind to. That’s why the epilepsy he developed, most likely as a result of the chemo, had to sneak up and take him away in the middle of the night.

Had he seen it coming, he would have survived that too. I didn’t know epilepsy could kill people. I didn’t even know there was more than one kind. There is.

I’ve never met anyone who persevered as hard as Mikey did, just to be normal; just to do all the things we take for granted; just to not be different. He was, though: different. There were over 1000 people at his funeral.

A few weeks later I was taking the train home and there was this guy cleaning the escalator: daggy clothes, backside hanging out of his shorts and, without even thinking, I found myself judging him.

But who am I to judge him—his appearance or his job? Maybe his job was the best job in the world.

I don’t know. I didn’t ask.

For all I know that guy could have been king of the escalators. He could have been admired far and wide by the entire escalator cleaning community. And to get that job he could have had to overcome hurdles that I had never even considered.

He could have been happy—happier than me. Could’ve been Mikey there, cleaning that escalator.

I don’t know. I didn’t ask.