"You're lucky, things could be worse."

by Dale Gustafson 

            I have a deep disdain for morons who insist on saying, "You're lucky, things could be worse."  These are the people who greet you at the emergency room where you've gone to have stitches or a broken arm set, or the people who stand on the shore next to you as you watch the ocean sweep your house out to sea.  In fact, even someone in your own family is probably one of these idiots.  They masquerade as someone concerned for your welfare, but they are actually there to twist the knife in your wound. 

            It was about twenty years ago when my entire life was at its lowest ebb.  My father died, he had been retired for about a year and we were just getting to know each other again.  I had just gone through a divorce that had virtually bankrupt me, both financially and emotionally.  My employer decided to cut his expenses by laying me off, and greeted me with the news the day I returned from a successful business trip.   When I arrived home, after being away for three weeks, I discover that my house had been burglarized and vandalized. 

            During the divorce, it had taken every cent I had to hold on to the small old house and a few sticks of furniture.  It was all I had, and now it was gone.

            After the police reports and an examination of how extensive the damage was, I sat down on what was once a sofa and now only a pile of wood, torn leather and yellow stuffing.  I used a cheap plastic phone I had borrowed from a neighbor's teen-ager to call my Friend Dan, who had been taking care of my dog.  At least the dog would be glad to see me and be some comfort.  I told Dan of the home destruction, he already knew my other problems.  He said he'd be right over.

            The home was now a collection of graffiti painted walls and destroyed furniture.  What the punks couldn't steal or didn't want, they destroyed.  There was a dead cat in the refrigerator and human feces spread throughout every room in the place.  There were holes in the plaster, burns in the carpet and every personal valuable I had collected in the military and as a civilian was either destroyed or stolen.  Apparently this had gone on for a number of days, and my wonderful neighbors never noticed a thing.

            I was devastated.  I sat there for more than an hour with a variety of emotions running through me.  I was mad; angry enough to kill the punks who did this.  I was deeply hurt and wanted comfort, but I had no one, and that made the sadness that much deeper.  I was even confused, wondering what I would do next and how I would put the pieces of my life back into some semblance of order.  I had no clothes other than what I had carried with me on the business trip, no money, and no job.

            A car pulled up and I heard the familiar bark of my old dog.  He was nothing more than a mutt I had gotten from the pound, but he had been a good companion over the years.  He was old, but he still waged his tail and loved to be at my side.  His name was Roman because when he was a puppy, he had a tendency to roam around the neighborhood and visit everyone.  He was a big dog, a mix of Doberman and Black Lab, but he was gentile enough to play with small children and old people.  He had only one fault, he would eat until he exploded if you let him.

            Old Roman trotted in the open side door of the house and came to an immediate halt.  His eyes got big as he looked around the room in doggy disbelief.  I'm sure he was thinking that someone was in real trouble, he probably had vivid memories of how he was punished for chewing on a leg for the coffee table and couldn't imagine what the punishment for this type of damage would be.  After the momentary shock, he realized that I had returned and he rushed over to greet me.

            Roman loved to be hugged and at that moment in time, I needed to hug him more than anything else in the world.  Regardless of everything that had happened to me in my life, Roman was there to be my friend. 

            Dan walked into the house and was shocked at the damage. 

            "I've never seen anything like it," he exclaimed. 

            In his vain effort to console me, he made that stupid remark that so many unthinking morons have a tendency to say in such a situation.

            "You're lucky," said Dan, "it could have been worse."

            "I'm lucky?"  I replied with a sarcastic tone, "Things could be worse?" 

            Dan just stood there with a dumbfounded look on his face.

            "Tell me Dan," I snapped, "tell me how things could be any worse?"

            At that very moment, Roman gave out a strange sounding yelp, fell to his side and went into convulsions.  Dan and I rushed him to the Veterinary Hospital where he died about an hour later. 

            I consider myself an emotionally strong person.  During the past few months my father had died, I had gone through a terrible divorce,  lost my job, and the house had been ransacked.  Through it all I never shed a tear, not until the vet told me that Roman was dead.  It was the final blow to my wall against emotions and everything came out.  I started crying and couldn't stop, I was so full of rage and pain that I had to strike out against something...  I put my fist through the wall of the Vet's office.

            It was now my turn to be rushed to the hospital, my right hand was badly cut and some minor bones were broken.  I was set in a small cubical where an overworked intern treated my wound and sent me on my way.  Dan had made the unfortunate decision to wait for me. 

            Dan and I were in the hospital parking lot heading for the car when Dan made another vain attempt to make me feel better.

            "You know," he stammered, "you're lucky, it could have been worse."

            I dropped Dan with a left hook to the jaw.