Seeing One Another Through
By Susan Law Corpany

I read a news story this month about two girls, both of whom were in a car accident.  In a bizarre turn of events, a case of mistaken identity caused one family to bury a daughter that was not their own, only to discover later that the girl still alive was indeed their own daughter.  The flip side of this record is that another family ministered to a girl they thought was their own, only to find out that their daughter was the one who had died. 

Until I saw the pictures of the two girls, I could not understand how this terrible mix-up had happened.  With swelling and bandages it became more understandable how a desperate family believed the girl in the hospital was their own, until faced with evidence to the contrary.

With this new story, I was reminded of the recent mining disaster.  Families were given the news that their loved ones were alive, and then someone had the somber task of revealing that news to be untrue.  Previously filled with hope, they then had to face the fact that there was only one survivor, and the odds were not in their favor in laying claim to that survivor.  No one knows about that fall from a very high place unless they have experienced it. 

My heart ached for the most recent families involved and for the families of those miners.  In hearing those stories, I relived something I had not given much thought in recent years. 

It was 1982.  I was twenty-six years old when I was called to the emergency room of a nearby hospital, told only that my husband had been in an accident.  I did my best to be patient as they had me verify insurance information.  Since no one had yet said anything to me in explanation of what had happened, I was encouraged by the fact that apparently he had given them our name and address and insurance carrier.  (It did not occur to me that they did not have any information that could not have been copied from papers in his wallet.)  While in the midst of this process, a nurse appeared.

 “Is this the wife of the man in room three?  Is she done yet?  Her husband is asking for her.” 

“We’re almost through here.” 

I can look back now and see that her response was more of an evasion than an answer, but I took the exchange as further evidence that my husband was at least well enough to communicate, and I became impatient to see him.  He was asking for me.  Whatever care they were giving him, he needed the added comfort of knowing I was there.

She couldn’t exactly have said, “No, her husband is the dead one in room five,” but in leading the nurse to believe my husband was alive and asking for me, she also left me with that impression.  I was led into a little room where I was told a doctor would be in shortly to discuss my husband’s injuries.  I did my best to be patient through the whole process, understanding that procedures needed to be followed.  Believing as I did that my husband was alive, I was totally unprepared for what happened next. 

The doctor came in.  He asked my name.  He said four words.  “Your husband has expired.”

My first thought was, He was fine ten minutes ago.  What happened? 

Because of that experience, it is not possible for me to read a news story like these recent ones without knowing how it feels to have been given the gift of hope and then to have that hope removed, often bluntly.  I have often wondered why that doctor did not try to soften the blow, but I realize that anything you say to preface such news is likely just as blunt.

“I’m sorry to have to deliver this news but...”

“We did all we could...”

I realized that there is no easy way to deliver news like that, and that most likely for him the shortest distance between two points was to say it straight out. 

For years afterwards, I was reminded of that moment by bumper stickers that said, “Drive safely.  Don’t expire before your license does.” 

I was also filled with road rage whenever a car failed to pull over for an emergency vehicle.  Once I remember shouting at a man in the next car over, after the emergency vehicle had passed.  With a confused toddler listening from his carseat in the back, I yelled out the window to ask the man if he would have pulled over if it was someone he loved in that ambulance.  “Okay, momma?” was asked of me far too often in those days.

Since Paul’s death, when faced with a slowdown on the freeway because of an accident, something that might have once been considered only as a personal nuisance, I have found myself saying silent prayers for those involved and their families.

Blessing the Lives of Others

When we have experienced personal trials and tragedies, and time has lessened our pain — and at least in my case, our anger — we can then find the sugar for our pitcher of lemonade and can bless the lives of others by understanding their pain. 

When the husband of an older lady in my ward passed away, it was said at his funeral that she had such a strong testimony, she would not notice his absence.  I wrote her a note, telling her that I did not doubt that she had a strong testimony, but that there was no way she was not going to miss her husband of more than fifty years, and that as far as I could determine, one had not a lot to do with the other.  She thanked me and told me that she was feeling bad for her feelings of grief because of that statement.  We had many conversations over the next couple of years, as she worked through her grief.

There are many levels of understanding people have when others around them confront a problem.  When I was stricken with severe morning sickness, there was one lady in the ward who knew and understood.  She did not come with cures or advice, only with an understanding heart.

Some people base their understanding only on their own experience.  One lady told me I should do aerobics, because she said doing aerobics had helped her stay healthy during her pregnancy.  While that may very well have been true, I don’t know anyone who, when feeling nauseated, does aerobics, much less does anything more than lie on her bed in the fetal position.  Another sister called and chewed me out for turning down a calling, assuring me that while she held that same calling, she gave birth to several children, prompting some less-than-charitable comments on my part in response. 

There are always levels of understanding.  One lady told me I should do aerobics.  I don’t know anyone who, when feeling nauseated, does aerobics, much less does anything more than lie on a bed in the fetal position.  Another called and chewed me out for turning down a calling, assuring me that while she held that same calling, she gave birth to several children, prompting some less-than-charitable comments on my part in response. 

Others are blessed with an ability to put themselves somewhat in your shoes and know what is needed.  A nearby sister offered me rides to my doctor appointments when my husband was at work.  On my birthday the Relief Society president and her counselor brought me a small birthday cake.  Their gift to me was that they continued to converse with me while I upchucked the birthday cake I had politely consumed. 

Another dear sister watched my six-year-old son when I was hospitalized, and she also brought me the gift of laughter.  She reported his concern when she had picked him up from school. 

“Your mother is going to be in the hospital for a few days, so you’ll be coming to my house after school.”  She said he got a look of great concern on his face.  “Well okay, but only if you get My Favorite Martian on television on channel 2 at 4:00.” 

She also helped him get together a Halloween costume, and she smuggled in some chicken bouillon cubes, because I had complained that all they were giving me was beef bouillon and I was sick of it.  And she got permission to bring a little boy who said he was a “Wuzzle” to the hospital to see his mom, dressed in different parts of animals from the Halloween box.

But when Denise came, her understanding came from a different place.  She knew what it was like to be so weak from lack of food that she had to be helped from the bed to the bathroom.  She knew what it was like to hear the advice from people who had not experienced the event.  She understood and she blessed my life with her understanding.  Even though I was again well (having lost the baby), I cried when she moved from the ward, because no one else would ever understand quite the way she did.

Shortly after that, I was at a meeting.  Not aware I had lost the baby, a sister asked me when I was due.  I quietly stated that I had lost the baby.

“It was just not meant to be,” she stated curtly.

Another sister jumped in quickly, “That does not make her feel any better.” 

We quickly resumed the agenda of the meeting, but afterwards I sought out the sister who had come to my defense.  I was not surprised to find out that she had lost several unborn children.  Again, I was grateful for someone with an understanding heart.

One of the last verses of “How Firm a Foundation” states:  “And I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless, and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.”  (I hope I quoted that right.  I am traveling and sitting in an internet café far from a hymn book at the moment.)  When I am able to take something I have gone through and bless the life of someone else by having an understanding heart, I have always felt that God is helping me to sanctify my trials. 

As we do so — and I can say this only by being twenty-four years down the road from “your husband has expired” — I believe we lose a little of our anger and bitterness and sadness and gain a little more of understanding and wisdom and compassion.

If we are able to refrain from being judgmental and hurtful to people in pain, we bless their lives.  If we find a way to understand their needs and give service, we also bless their lives.   But when we have gone through a challenge, we are able to reach out to those who have suffered a similar problem in a way that no one else can. 

I truly believe that one purpose of our trials is to help us to better serve our fellow man.  It is said best in one of my favorite sayings.  I wish I knew to whom to attribute it.

We are not put here to see through one another,
but to see one another through.