Well, what did you expect?

Love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Then your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. Lk 6:35


Larry was a junkie. I think he had more toxic chemicals in his veins than blood. I found him lying in the bushes barely breathing, his eyes half-open, his pupils like pinpoints. Foamy saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. Track marks scarred both arms. I knelt beside him, pulled a dirty syringe from his arm, and then opened my med box to prepare a syringe of my own.

"What else do you want?" my partner asked me.

"We need an IV."

"You know he’s just gonna rip it out, don’t you?"

"I know, Warren. Just do it please."

Warren shrugged and snatched a 500-cc IV bag from the med box. I wrapped a tourniquet around Larry’s arm, thumped up a fat vein, and then plunged an IV catheter into it. The flash chamber filled with blood. I threaded the catheter and attached the IV tubing. Warren set the flow rate to keep the vein open.

Next I selected a small plastic vial and stuck a 3-cc syringe into the round rubbery top. I turned the bottle over, pulled back on the plunger and withdrew two milliliters of clear fluid. After tapping the syringe to clear it of excess air bubbles I attached it to the IV line and pushed the drug into Larry’s vein.

Mere seconds passed before Larry’s eyes began to flutter. His respirations quickened. He slurped a couple of times as if sucking the remains of a milkshake from a straw, and then took a deep breath and sat up. He looked sluggish at first, blurry and unseeing as if covered by a thick haze, but then the constricted pupils dilated and his vision sharpened to a fine point.

"Well," I said. "Welcome back."

"What happened?"

"You OD’d again, Larry. You were barely breathing."

"But why…why did you—"

"We gave you Narcan. We had to get you breathing again."

I offered my hand. Larry slapped it away, stood up, and shouted at me, "You took my high, away, man!"

I’d better not tell you what Larry said to me next, or what he did after he ripped the IV out of his arm, but it wasn’t pretty. He thrust his middle finger into the air and then turned and stormed away from the scene, bleeding from the punctured vein and shouting loud obscenities. I felt stunned. I glanced at my partner.

"Did you see that?"

"Well what’d you expect," Warren said. "A thank you note?"

"No, but maybe a little appreciation!"

"Get real, Pat. He’s a junkie. That hit probably cost him ten bucks. We just stole it from him."

*

You know, I never really expected Larry to thank me, I’m not that naïve, but still, I think it would be nice if, just once, someone would say "Thanks," and then pat me on the back for a job well done. I deserve that much, don’t I?

Well, to be honest, no. I know I don’t deserve that. Jesus said, do good to them and don’t expect anything in return. Just love them. But that’s a hard thing for me to do—to love a guy like Larry—but if Jesus loves him, I suppose I should try. So next time I see him, I’ll stick a needle in his arm, push a therapeutic dose of Narcan into his vein, and then sit back and watch him wake up. And if he curses me, and spits, and blames me for his troubles in life, I’ll smile and turn the other cheek. And then, perhaps I’ll even pray for him, instead of worrying so much about myself.

* * *