M E R I D I A N M A G A Z I N E
Trump That!
By Susan Law Corpany
Anyone who reads much of my writing soon discovers that I have a few favorite topics, one of them being “cliché-busting.” Just as we recycle the same ideas for Enrichment Meetings, we all tend to say the same lame non-comforting things to those in need. Today’s column, however, is a reminder that a greater pain or challenge does not give us license to be insensitive to the lesser problems of others.
The Parable of the Puppy
Every morning my little cocker spaniel puppy, Corky, would stand by the sliding glass door and whimper, letting me know that she needed to go out. I would get up, throw on some clothes and slide open the door. If I did not get up quickly enough, her whimper would escalate to a whine, and shortly after that it would become an insistent howl.
One morning she had proceeded rather quickly to the howl stage. I quickly hurried to the stairs, knowing that after “howl” came “mop up the floor.” Then something interesting happened. From nearby came the sound of a fire engine siren. Corky cocked her head to one side, and listened to the shrill noise. Immediately her howl subsided. I imagined her thinking, “Wow! Somebody out there has to go worse than I do.” After a few seconds, she began again to whimper softly, a gentler reminder that she still needed to go out and take care of business.
True my little puppy had decided that there was someone out there with a bigger reason to sound off, but it didn’t change the fact that she still needed to go out. While she may have gotten perspective from the realization that there were apparently bigger needs than hers out there, it did not change the fact that she still had something to whimper about, that her needs still warranted attention.
With shame and embarrassment I became aware, a couple of years after losing my husband, of the times that I had been insensitive to the struggles of those around me. Of course, there had been an expectation of an immediate blocking out of everything and everyone while I dealt with the expediencies, but after that I had this big trial that I could pull out dwarfing whatever was going on with most people.
Remember the scene in Crocodile Dundee where a New York thug pulled a knife on him? He stood coolly appraising the situation, and then he pulled out the knife-to-end-all-knives. “You call that a knife?”
Sometimes instead of lending a listening ear or a helping hand, we pull out the trump card of our big problem and lay it on the table, face up for all to see. They may have a handful of lesser challenges, face down on the table, but we have won the round!
The time I remember best was when my mother was upset because another person had taken credit for the pancakes she had made for a family reunion breakfast. She had bought the ingredients and slaved over the hot griddle, but the person who delivered the pancakes took all the credit while she remained invisible inside a hot kitchen.
Sure, in the overall scheme of things, it would soon be forgotten, but at that moment, she needed someone to sympathize with her and remind her that a few people knew who had done all the work. She needed me to tell her how good the pancakes had tasted and that she was appreciated. Instead I said, “At least your husband is alive!” There! I won! A dead husband beats out pancake problems every time. Sure enough, my mother didn’t say another word about the pancakes.
I also remember times I would be in a group of women complaining about their husbands, usually about minor things that women often vent to each other. I often said something like, “I miss even the things I didn’t like about Paul.” It was true, but a lot depended on the way I said it. If it came across as judgmental, as I’m afraid it often did, the conversation just kind of dried up. Women learned that to be my friend was to give sympathy but not to expect any back. Other times I may have said it more gently, acknowledging that though things were not perfect, they could be worse.
I realize now, though, there were many times I might have been sensitive to the trials others were going through, and I was not. My husband’s death did not mean that my friends did not struggle in their marriages or have challenges with their children. When people share their difficulties, they are whimpering softly, asking for a listening ear, possibly a suggestion or maybe just an acknowledgment of their challenge and encouragement to carry on. Like my puppy, they just need a little help and they will take care of the rest.
In a column I recently wrote, I talked about how I have used my trials to be more sensitive to the problems of others. While I hope that is true now, in the year or two following my greatest loss, I regret that it was otherwise. For the pioneers, yes, there was a difference between burying a loved one on the prairie or having a broken wheel on the wagon, but a broken wheel was a problem that needed to be addressed and dealt with, too — not dismissed.
Because you have lost a child, does not mean that someone else does not agonize over their living child’s choices. Because your house burned down does not mean someone else does not struggle to meet their mortgage payment due to an unexpected downturn in finances. If your car has been totaled does not mean that someone else does not agonize over the first minor dent in a brand new car.
If we are sensitive to the needs of others and not wrapped up in our own pain, we can give them both perspective and help. A young mother with several children in tow, at the end of her rope, does not need the judgment of a childless sister leveled at her as she complains about not having had a moment’s privacy in weeks. Imagine the following statement said in a harsh, judgmental way. “I would give anything to have even one child!” (If you catch the young mother on the right day, she may give you one.)
Sure, this will likely shame her into silence, but it doesn’t diminish her challenge and only heaps guilt on top of the already-growing pile.
Now imagine the same statement said softly. “I would give anything to have even one child.” Then followed by, “But because I am childless, I have no idea what it is like to handle three little ones. Here, let me hold the baby for a few minutes and give him a bottle while you quiet down the other two.”
Long since shorted on my supply of babies, I learned the art of “baby borrowing.” For an overburdened sister-in-law a day to clean her house without the “anti-cleaners” underfoot was a blessing. Likewise, a day in the park with the nieces and nephews was a good time for me, not to mention the ego boost of that playground being forever after known as the “Aunt Susan Park.”
**
“All right, I’m just going to pick you up, and you reach the one you want, okay? We can’t take all day trying to pick a balloon.” Beverly was getting impatient.
Davey started to cry. “They don’t have the right kind.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Davey, they must have twenty-five different designs here. I’ll let you get whichever one you want—Happy Golden Wedding, Porky Pig—just choose one.”
“But it’s not the right kind!”
“Well then, what kind do you want?”
“You know, the kind they fill up at Chuck E. Cheese and when you let go of the string, it goes to heaven.”
“Oh honey, I’m sorry I didn’t understand.” Beverly’s impatience vanished. “Excuse me. It’s Virginia, right? Could you fill us up two helium balloons please—to go.”
“We’re sending them to my dad in heaven,” Davey proudly announced. Beverly looked away, careful not to meet the saleslady’s eyes, not wanting to show her emotions.”
Virginia rang up the flowers. “No charge for the balloons.”
“Thank you,” Beverly said, this time meeting Virginia’s eyes, despite the emotion showing in her own. “That’s very nice of you.”
She saw the same emotions mirrored back. “Don’t mention it. I might send a balloon or two off to heaven myself later today. I lost both my parents last year. Thanks for the idea.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was it an accident?”
“No, Dad just couldn’t go on without Mom. His health wasn’t good and after Mom died, I guess he had more pulling him to the other side than there was to keep him here.”
“That must have been a rough year.”
“Yes, it was. It’s still rough. I didn’t know I would miss them so much. Every event that comes and goes reminds me that they’re gone.”
“I’ve decided that what grieving people need is a calendar with no holidays on it. Special events and holidays are the hardest, aren’t they?”
“They were both so good at being supportive of my children, their activities and achievements. And my youngest won’t even remember her grandparents.”
Better than not being able to remember your father. Beverly kept that thought to herself, realizing that this was not a time to one-up the grieving sales clerk. She just needs someone to listen, just like I needed people to listen. It’s not much, but it’s something I can do.
“I’m thankful we had them spend last Christmas with us. At least we got some good pictures of them with all the children, so they’ll have those to remember Grandma and Grandpa by.” She wiped off the counter as she spoke. “I’m sorry. What am I doing, spilling my guts to a perfect stranger?”
“I don’t mind,” Beverly answered. Funny she didn’t ask me about my loss, after what Davey said about taking the balloons to his dad. I was probably like that, too, right after losing Dave. I don’t recall being aware of anyone’s pain but my own. I was like an injured soldier on the battlefield crying out for painkiller. Now that my wounds have been tended to, I can look around and see that I’m surrounded by fields of other wounded people. Maybe now I can tend to someone besides myself.
Virginia wiped her eyes. “You’re sure I’m not holding you up?”
Beverly held up the flowers. I’ve got a delivery to make, but he’s not going anywhere.”
Beverly felt a tug on her pantleg. “Mom, let’s go. How come you have to talk so much?”
“Just a minute, Davey.” She got down on his level. “This lady’s mother and father both died last year and that’s what we’re talking about. We’ll go soon.”
“Are they gonna make you go live in the orphanage?” Davey questioned.
Virginia laughed. “No, I think I’m safe from that.” She spoke to Beverly. “Thanks. You’ve brightened my day. And your son made me laugh. I needed that. Thank you for listening.”
“It gets easier. Someday the grief will lessen and the good memories will shine through.”**
© 2006 Meridian Magazine. All Rights Reserved.