Sitting around the dinner table last night sneaking a few bites of dinner before Sandy arrived home, we talked about Auden’s return to Kindergarten after a three day stomach virus. Wearing the full regalia of vulnerability the way only small children can, Auden moaned about how he was going to be so far behind. Eliot, being a big brother and not at all moved by the turmoils of Auden’s life, responded, “I wonder if you’ll have a lot of homework? Oh, wait, that’s right, you don’t have homework.” Not for the first time, Eliot segued into the woe’s of being a 6th grader and the weight of the world that he carried. “Just wait until you’re in 6th grade, then you’ll know what it’s like.”
I’d just finished reading an essay called “Pain Tours (I)” by Leslie Jamison from the Empathy Exams. I’d read about silver mines in Bolivia, children of addicts, and of growing up in gang central Los Angeles. I was tired. Both of Eliot lamenting his life and of his dismissing Auden’s pains. So, I told him that. I may have ranted a bit, mentioning that in LA there are gang wars in 6th grade as they stake out territory; I was surprised to find myself shaming him for his own expression of pain. I tried to save it once I saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes, my mind screaming, “Pull up! Pull up! S.O.S.!” as I rationally asked him how he felt having his own pain dismissed? Did he think that Auden might feel the same way? I referred to how Auden’s Kindergarten life was possibly more difficult than Eliot’s Kindergarten life (Auden’s, “Yeah!” did not help the situation). Fortunately, Sandy arrived home, and proved distracting. He got the basic gist of what had caused the stony expression on Eliot’s face, but he didn’t belabor it, just changed topics and let me save some face.
Now I wonder, why had I felt so compelled to dismiss Eliot’s angst, just as he had done Auden’s? Clearly the vocalization of pain – (and Jamison gives a thorough anatomy of it in the last essay of the book) – seeks an audience. We seek empathy or sympathy or compassion or some other human connection that makes us aware that someone else sees how hard we have it. I, myself, have desperately desired a less invisible illness some days, something that broadcasts, “give this lady a break.”
Moments ago, I was surprised by the dog walker’s arrival and found myself opening the door with an ice wrap around my knee (post-run icing), a cast-like brace on my elbow (tendonitis), and a thick heating pad around my waist (pancreatitis). She briefly scanned me and exclaimed, “What happened?!” To which, I quickly gestured my good arm in the universal sweeping away dismissal, and said, “oh, nothing, just tendonitis – wearing the brace helps.”
Here I was the object of possible compassion, and my first move was to cut off that connection. Not because I don’t love my dog walker. I do! She’s been with us for over 12 years, now on dogs #4 and #5. She’s a dear woman who laughs easily and conveys a depth that tells you you could cry on her shoulder, and she’d be with you the entire time. Not surprising on reflection. She is, of course, a dog person.
Like me, my boys eschew comfort when they are sorrowful. Unless it’s a bodily injury, neither would crawl into my lap to sob; instead they run and push me away to hide in a dark place and contemplate how they’ve been wronged or hurt.
What is it that makes us so ready to dismiss others’ pain in comparison to our own and simultaneously dismissive of support? I need to go back and read more Brene Brown about vulnerability and how much we hate it. I hope I find answers there.
The exception to this rule, I’ve found, is community. When I found my Facebook pancreatitis groups, I found a community of people who never dismiss how hard it can be. Who help new folks navigate the ins and outs, who joke about their own pain, but never question and only support and love when someone else shares how much pain they are in on a given day.
It’s a sad consideration that in my own family, I may not foster that same sense of community. I guess you learn something every day. And everyday is a new one to practice new skills.