A Story
Folks, what follows is not a brag. I'm not asking for praise. I just wanted to tell you a story with a point at the end. A different kind of story than I usually tell you.
Last Friday Doug took a header off his bike and we ended up spending from 6:30 pm to 1:30 am in the local ER. It was a very busy night and so they parked Doug and many others on gurneys in the hallway. Doug was banged up but not seriously hurt and we mostly joked around with the nurses, waiting endlessly for medical attention and test results.
Around 9 pm the EMTs brought in a woman probably in her late 70s who was haranging them loudly about the bandage on her head, and how she didn't need it and why they were doing everything wrong. She wasn't really angry, just frustrated and wanting to go home (which turned out to be a managed care facility). The EMTs were at their wits end with her and stood smirking and shrugging at the rest of us out of her line of sight, which bothered me. They were quite young and clearly didn't know what to do with her during the long wait to get her onto a room for treatment. They had to stay with her until that happened and it took a long time. It soon became apparent that she was all alone. As the EMTs read her file to the nurse they listed her ailments, one of which was dementia, which the woman loudly denied. She continued to bluster and complain throughout the poor nurse's attempts to get her logged in. I noticed, too, that others in the hallway were either smothering grins, looking impatient, or pretending the woman was invisible. This is common with the elderly; they become alien, other, something people don't want to look at or deal with.
In the midst of the woman's diatribe she'd mentioned having been involved in showing champion dogs. When the nurse was done I stepped into the woman's line of sight and said "Hi, how are you doing?"
That's all it took. She and I talked for two and a half hours about her malamutes, the joys and the sorrows of working with them, how she'd loved them, how hard it was when one of them was badly hurt or they died. She told me their names and their markings, she told me about what it was like to show a dog and win at the Westminster Dog Show and other big shows. She smiled, she teared up, and she totally forgot about the bandage on her head. I told her about Doug's accident, my trip to the Westminster Dog Show, and the dogs in my life, but mostly I listened. I think for that length of time I eased her suffering and fear, because I do believe that under all that bluster was fear. She was, as I said, all alone, among strangers, with no one to tend her, or the time to comfort her. So I did, because I could. By the time they came to put her in a room, she was calm and cheerful. Sometime later they wheeled her by again, probably for an X ray down the hall, and she smiled and waved to us. That smile made me feel so happy.
The point of this story? If the universe hands you the opportunity to be compassionate and help someone—friend or stranger—grab that opportunity fearlessly with both hands, trust your heart, and do what you can. Sometimes you'll be rebuffed and yes, it can be embarrassing, but the times you are allowed to help make a world of difference. Probably all you need to do is listen, maybe hold their hand. That's it.
Yesterday a friend of mine told me a Jewish proverb: If you help one person, you help the world. I believe that. Do what you can, when you can.
Last Friday Doug took a header off his bike and we ended up spending from 6:30 pm to 1:30 am in the local ER. It was a very busy night and so they parked Doug and many others on gurneys in the hallway. Doug was banged up but not seriously hurt and we mostly joked around with the nurses, waiting endlessly for medical attention and test results.
Around 9 pm the EMTs brought in a woman probably in her late 70s who was haranging them loudly about the bandage on her head, and how she didn't need it and why they were doing everything wrong. She wasn't really angry, just frustrated and wanting to go home (which turned out to be a managed care facility). The EMTs were at their wits end with her and stood smirking and shrugging at the rest of us out of her line of sight, which bothered me. They were quite young and clearly didn't know what to do with her during the long wait to get her onto a room for treatment. They had to stay with her until that happened and it took a long time. It soon became apparent that she was all alone. As the EMTs read her file to the nurse they listed her ailments, one of which was dementia, which the woman loudly denied. She continued to bluster and complain throughout the poor nurse's attempts to get her logged in. I noticed, too, that others in the hallway were either smothering grins, looking impatient, or pretending the woman was invisible. This is common with the elderly; they become alien, other, something people don't want to look at or deal with.
In the midst of the woman's diatribe she'd mentioned having been involved in showing champion dogs. When the nurse was done I stepped into the woman's line of sight and said "Hi, how are you doing?"
That's all it took. She and I talked for two and a half hours about her malamutes, the joys and the sorrows of working with them, how she'd loved them, how hard it was when one of them was badly hurt or they died. She told me their names and their markings, she told me about what it was like to show a dog and win at the Westminster Dog Show and other big shows. She smiled, she teared up, and she totally forgot about the bandage on her head. I told her about Doug's accident, my trip to the Westminster Dog Show, and the dogs in my life, but mostly I listened. I think for that length of time I eased her suffering and fear, because I do believe that under all that bluster was fear. She was, as I said, all alone, among strangers, with no one to tend her, or the time to comfort her. So I did, because I could. By the time they came to put her in a room, she was calm and cheerful. Sometime later they wheeled her by again, probably for an X ray down the hall, and she smiled and waved to us. That smile made me feel so happy.
The point of this story? If the universe hands you the opportunity to be compassionate and help someone—friend or stranger—grab that opportunity fearlessly with both hands, trust your heart, and do what you can. Sometimes you'll be rebuffed and yes, it can be embarrassing, but the times you are allowed to help make a world of difference. Probably all you need to do is listen, maybe hold their hand. That's it.
Yesterday a friend of mine told me a Jewish proverb: If you help one person, you help the world. I believe that. Do what you can, when you can.
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