Vintage: Still Save Your Comparisons

I wrote this last year, a year ago today.  It's still incredibly relevant, as I'm sure it will be for the rest of my life, however long that will be.

It Happened a Lifetime Ago, 

But Save Your Comparisons

I usually try to avoid ultra-personal posts on Facebook.  I prefer to be vague, keep some mystery, reserve those personal details for people who matter, for people who actually want to know them, deserve to know them.  No offense, really.  But today, I put out a post that was deeply personal and necessary because many people fail to comprehend certain socially acceptable behaviors that I will get to in a minute.


The post:

________My Name________:

was a senior in high school exactly half her lifetime ago and on that Thursday, just as today, her life abruptly changed. From the morning her genetics teacher scrambled to her desk and without a word guided her out of the room, her life was severely altered. It took hours for anyone to tell her anything. She dealt with unwanted hugs. She listened to uncomfortable whimpers. They listened how all she could think about was the play she was going to be in that night and her journalism deadline for her sports column she was tweaking to perfection. And when someone did finally tell her, all she wanted to do was go back to school and continue with her day. And no one could understand why. To this very day, she still fully understands why. Over the years, she's had stupid questions asked, even an exact month after he died. "Does it still bother you?" Who would ask something so stupid to someone who had just lost their father? She realizes that at the time that coworker of hers probably had no idea how rude that was. Or the countless people over the years that have compared her father's passing to a pet dying (not kidding), an automobile (still not kidding), breakups (still serious), a neighbor (yes, really), various church members (uh, yeah), distant relatives, someone they knew almost getting shot, even grandparents. And although she's also lost all of her grandparents, half before she was born, it's not the same. There is nothing in life to prepare you for that loss, that sort of change. You can't compare anyone's loss to another. ANYONE. Certainly not to a car. Or a dog. Perhaps that's the greatest loss that has happened to those people. They just can't comprehend it. But here's the other thing, that change, that loss changed her from that very day. It changed her personality. Her habits. Her opinions. Her tastes. And it took her two years to absorb those differences as she listened to people around her tell her they missed "the old" her. She thought she did too. For a brief moment. But innocence dies. People die. People change. People grow. And all those stupid questions like "don't you wish he could meet your daughter?" and "do you still miss him?" only make her hope and pray that those people don't say anything that callous to someone who has lost a child. A loss she can't even fathom. Because here's something at 19 she settled on. Children are meant to outlive their parents. Regardless of our age. They die. It's a fact of life and what you do after that and with that knowledge is your life. It will change you. Forever. But she had it easier than some. She had a normal Thursday morning with her father, a week before Thanksgiving, they talked briefly about the play, she said goodbye, and headed off to school. There was no true sign that her life would be altered that day. She had a normal last moment with him. She said "goodbye." And that was exactly half her lifetime ago. On a Thursday just like today. And she turned out okay. And she's grateful for that, and she wouldn't change a thing. So don't pity her, because that's not what this post is about. Don't send her virtual hugs; still not what this post is about. One favor though....don't say stupid things to people and make random comparisons. Just....don't. If you don't know what to say, say nothing. They'll understand. They'll be okay. They'll probably even thank you for it. And if you compare a dead person to a dead automobile, you deserve the kick in the teeth.



My reasons for this post should be obvious.  My father died on this day, also a Thursday, when I was seventeen.  It has now been seventeen years since that very day, half of my lifetime.  Throughout the years, people have made ill-conceived comparisons, just as I'm sure they've done to many people during their equally tragic situations.  I don't think these people are bad people, they just haven't been through anything truly like this to know there isn't a protocol.  (Or maybe they have been through this, but forgot how it felt.)  They haven't realized that it's okay to be unable to identify with a person, to not know what they're going through, to have absolutely nothing to compare it to.  They have no idea that sometimes, it's okay to remain quiet.  That it is socially acceptable to just not know.  They have no idea, but they need to.


They need to know that sometimes there isn't anything you can say.  There isn't anything you can compare it to, and comparing someone losing their father to a misfired gun and saying you "know exactly what it's like" because one time your dad was cleaning a gun and it too misfired and put a hole in your wall and could have hit your mother, isn't exactly the right thing to say to that person.  Because it's not the same.  And while it probably was terrifying and somewhat life-changing for your family, adrenaline-racing, and such, it's probably not going to garner true empathy from the person you just shared it with.  You weren't being empathetic, you only thought you were.  And that's okay.  Again, it's okay to not know what someone is going through, or has gone through.  It's okay!  You don't have to know.  It's even a good thing that you don't know.  Be grateful for that.


I'm grateful when I don't know what someone is going through during a tragic time.  It makes me even more grateful for my life, for my circumstances.  Even when they lose their job, I have no idea, because when my husband was once laid off, we got through it fine.  Our situation isn't everyone's situation.  It didn't stop someone from comparing it to almost quitting a job.  I felt slightly slapped at the time, but I got over it.  We survived the situation, because in the end, it wasn't that bad.  It wasn't that scary, after it was all said and done.  And for that person, maybe almost quitting that job was scarring.


I am admittedly socially awkward, but so many people who swear they are the opposite, they are the ones guilty of all the comparisons, all the competitive one-upping stories.  Now perhaps I'm socially inept, but at least I realize that there's a time and place for a comparison and competition, and that time nor place is ever during a tragedy.  Nor after it.  Doesn't even involve it.  Don't even think about it.


Your child being sick once isn't the same as someone losing a child.  I've heard that comparison once.  Or comparing it to someone's child having cancer.  Someone being sick with a virus isn't the same as someone with cancer.  Someone having a heart murmur isn't the same as someone else's child going through heart failure.   Your child being born three weeks early isn't the same as someone's child who was born three months early.  And while I'm sure it may have been traumatic, save that conversation for someone else.


And perhaps you have been through something similar.  Perhaps you have experienced a similar loss.  Perhaps you have dealt with the same disease.  Maybe your father also died from a misfired shotgun in the middle of his kitchen.  But just because the situations are similar, even familiar, doesn't mean you know.  You can't know.  They're not your feelings.  You know what you're going through, what you've been through, what you're feeling.  Maybe.  I don't always know what I'm feeling, honestly.  But no one ever really knows what someone else is going through or feeling, because we are all different.  We all deal with tragedies differently.  We deal with successes differently.  We deal with change differently.  We deal with loss differently.


Again, I implore people to leave out the comparisons.  Leave out the stories.  It's OKAY to not know what someone is going through.  It's okay that your kid is healthy.  It's okay your parents are still alive!  Don't be ashamed.  And perhaps some of those situations were traumatic for you, but take a minute to consider how traumatic what someone else has gone through is for them.  And maybe they're not ready to have that trauma compared to yours.  Ever.


Don't confuse empathy, sympathy, and apathy.  Don't feign empathy, even unintentionally,  because all you do is come across apathetic and insulting.  It's okay your life has been potentially sheltered.  It's okay the worst thing that has happened to your child thus far is a high fever.  It's okay the worst health issue you've had was surgery. You don't need to compare it to anyone else.  Don't allow your need to identify with someone else cloud your ability to be grateful that you haven't been in that situation.  Accept that gratitude.  Embrace it.  Cherish it.  Being grateful for your situation is a great way to help that person.  Not having it be a competition is a great help.  Just telling them, "I am so sorry, I can't imagine," is perfectly suitable.  It's typically my default response, because I don't know what to say.  And I'm truly sorry.  And I truly can't imagine.  I don't want to imagine.  I don't want to know.  You probably don't either.  So, please, please, please, don't pretend you know.  Don't compare.  Don't compete.  Even if you've been through what you believe to be worse, or as bad.  Just don't.  Please.  We all beg of you.  Just....don't.




My best friend at the time did the best thing for me that day.  She was allowed to leave school because the school knew she knew me and she came and kidnapped me and we went swinging in the park.  She didn't ask me to talk about it.  She didn't tell me she knew what it was like.  And although she had a tendency to be condescending at times, at that moment, she was exactly the person I needed her to be, the person I wouldn't have expected her to be.  Another friend of ours, one I thought would have been more understanding, was the opposite.   Exactly six months later, she had my rear hauled in to a grief counselor's office so we could talk about how awful of a friend I was and how I haven't been there for her more with her loss of my father, a man she met twice.  Yes, twice.  And the counselor asked me, "Terra, how does this make you feel?  Don't you think you should apologize to her?  Be there for her more?  Do more for her?"  And I was all, "I think I should go back to Psychology class right now, because the two of you are moronic."  I was told I was out of line.  That I was wrong.  Eh, I still think it was moronic, and I'd say the same thing to them both now.


And I know Devil's Advocate would say that maybe it was hard on her. That maybe I shouldn't underestimate the impact.  But some people have this unexplained need to find themselves in the same situation, some compulsive desire to share the pity, pity the other person probably doesn't want in the first place.  And that doesn't help anyone, including themselves. And it certainly didn't help seventeen-year-old me.  In fact, seventeen-year-old me stabbed her inside her head.  Which really wasn't a nice thing to do, but seventeen-year-old me thought she had it coming.  And our friendship remained tainted after that.  Partially because of her trauma, and partially because of my imagined attempt on her life.



But regardless of what the version of myself from half a lifetime ago thinks, the adult version of myself has spent years settled and adjusted after my father's death.  I've accepted it.  I've moved on.  I wouldn't change anything, because all of it has made me the person I am today and brought me to the life I have, including my beautiful daughter and sometimes understanding spouse. But the only part of it that has ever continued to irritate me is that when people ask about my father, they rarely leave it at that.  They have to compare.  They have to compete.  And that, that is something I will never get over, never accept.

Vintage: I Saw What I Saw

While you're wondering what happened to me, and I'm doing my best to do anything but blog, I'm going to share this vintage piece I wrote ages ago, after an experience in the October of 2007.  It is merely about perspective.  Don't read too much into it.  Or you'll be like me.  We don't want that.  From this point on, it is exactly how I wrote it then.  It has been left untouched.

Disclaimer: For those seeking my usual satire or humor, please note that this is of a more serious tone.  Although it may still be insightful and worthy of your time, it most likely will not be of the jocund variety.  Also, I began writing this on Tuesday, so time is no longer accurate or relevant.

  

I see a lot of things.  Some of the things I see are hallucinations.  That happens, especially when you're as wacky as I am.  And some of what I see is real. Like the homeless looking guy I caught a glimpse of last month. He was riding a bike, with a computer balanced on the handlebars.  At night.  With no reflectors.  And I was enamored by this, naturally.  Was I imagining it?  No, I swear to you I wasn't.  I told myself I'd write about that moment for everyone's benefit, but of course, I never did.  But I didn't want to forget because some things I see are worth mentioning, are worth sharing, are worth remembering.

Yesterday, I was coming back from a week long road trip, driving through Missouri, returning from visiting other states, taking in the beauty of the autumn colors surrounding me.  It was breathtaking.  During this wonder, I received a phone call.  As typical for me, I retrieved my phone in time to miss the call. I won't bore you with details of unnecessary proportions, like how an hour prior to this, it was determined I should call this person to ask about how they were doing and if they'd heard about how someone else was doing.  And I also won't mention to you how this person was calling because of how the other person was doing.  All I will divulge is that my voyage to home from the exquisite trees of Missouri sojourned at a hospital, a destination not on the vacation itinerary, but somewhere I needed to be nonetheless.

In the insanity that ensued during this time, it wasn't all that insane.  It was actually almost peaceful, surreal, considering what was happening, considering what everyone was waiting for.  And as I proceeded down the sparkling clean, bleach scoured corridor, I was for one of the rarest occasions in my life, even perhaps the only time, not at all curious about what I'd see.  I didn't have my usual millions of questions.  My menacing mind wasn't juggling scenarios.  Maybe I was frightened, but above all, I was just numb; really, really numb.  And not curious in the slightest.

Once we entered that room, I found myself looking in as a bystander.  Somewhere down that hallway, I misplaced my relative status.  I forgot who I was. I forgot who was in that bed.  I forgot why I was there.  All I knew was sadness had engulfed the entire space of the room, sadness so great it swallowed every emotion, encumbered every thought of anyone in a two mile radius.  But I was still just numb.  And then I became reflective.  And while the despair sucked tears from every eye, I was immune.  Well, not fully impervious, but after years of being me, I do have certain immunities.  But it wasn't that.  I was captivated.

I don't know how to explain what happened in a comprehensible manner.   There in the hospital bed was someone cherished and respected, someone well loved by all those around him, and all that was left was his irreplaceable shadow.  His skin was a shade of yellow I couldn't recall and later I realized it was because of the jaundice.  I had forgotten about that minor detail.  Cancer had eaten away at him, but it never made it to his dignity, to his spirit.  And although I regretted seeing him in such a way, and I was in a state of obscurity due to his condition, he strangely enough wasn't my focus.  He's not the story I will reveal for years to come and the vision I'll hold onto for the rest of my life.

You're going to find me crazy, you probably do anyway, but I was transfixed by something else, someone else in that hospital room that day.  Beside the shadow was his heart, stiffened in a chair.  The true heart outside of his chest, she was a stunning marvel, going through a process few people could ever identify with. I don't know how to clearly explain my infatuation with the woman in the chair, the peril of strength she always is; in such a weakened state, she seemed even stronger than ever because of that. 

In front of me and all my confusion, was one of the loveliest sights I have ever witnessed.  I couldn't take my eyes off of her.  She was lost in a trance, her droopy eyes, lost in her thoughts, mislaid in the moment, dying as only a life can do.  I think I could have waved a hand in front of her face, and she wouldn't have ever noticed.  And finally I was curious.  Was she lost in thought?  Or was she sick of thinking?  Her circumstance was unfair and unfathomable.  And that only had me rapt more.

Her russet eyes were made of glass and there was a reflection of lights and darkness off of them.  Her expression was frozen in time and will forever be embedded in my brain, and this will disturb you, but if I could've gotten away with taking a photo, I would've done it.  But the snapshot is framed in a special region inside my head, an area reserved for things most people would never grasp, but I treasure them anyway.  She was morose, in the worst pain of her life, so what was wrong with me to find it besotting?  I can't answer that for you.  I can't answer that for me.  But I was caught in such intrigue. And I unintentionally impolitely stared at her.  She never knew.  She had no idea.

I wasn't being uncouth, I assure you; at least not deliberately.  I was taking in a realm of emotion that few people could ever be exposed to.  I wanted to present to her my heart to replace her breaking one.  I admired her poise, her loyalty.  But never once did I envy it.  Never once did I wish to be her.  She had transformed into one of the greatest pieces of art and I was respectfully admiring it.  Never had I seen such unconditional love until that moment.  She defined it. 

I only heard the woman speak once during this.  The doctors had stopped some medication because there was nothing else they could do.  They asked her if she wanted some alone time, and she answered, "I think I do."  The room of people resumed later bringing me with them and I examined her, exploring her sole expression all over again.  And as motionless as she had been, she suddenly jumped with a vengeance, in her weakened condition asked a nurse to remove the blood congregating around the tube in his mouth.  I had been completely unaware of the vivid red, caused by the massive internal bleeding. And standing before me in a position I wasn't familiar with, she broke down for the first time I had seen.  She mentioned losing him and every single head in that room united in thought that the prospect of the blood reminded her all over again what was happening to him, to her, to their son.  And she continued.  She gasped.  And she repeated her concern.  Adamantly.  And as we kept overhearing, "I'm losing him, he's gone," suddenly the invasive machine's countdown started, and within seconds her prediction, her knowledge had been right all along.  And I couldn't get over the fact that not only was she the most inspiring display I've ever seen, she was the most phenomenal.  I had heard of this occurring, but until this instant it had only been an unexplored myth.  But there really is such a connection so deep between two people and it is possible to be that entwined that one person can know.  They know.  Because she knew.

I will be haunted by that for eternity.  I will relish that for the rest of my life.  I will always ponder how.  But sometimes in life, there is no rhyme or reason, it just is.  And it just was.  For the first time, I heard the sound of a heart breaking.  And although I never want to see or hear something as powerful ever again, I have to appreciate the moment shared with me.  And as I felt like such an outsider and being so intrusive into such personal territory, it was an experience like nothing I'd ever observed and I'm a better person for it.  In me it will stay.

Within moments, the strongest woman in the world became a widow.   And through all of her sobs, she confessed she knew how sick he was and that this was a better passage for him, much better than any alternative to the situation.  And after a continuance of weeping, she suddenly looked up and towards the window and pointed the room to the sun.  There had been no sun that day, and then there it was, coming out long enough to set, coming out long enough to allow the woman to know its presence.  And as the faces looked up, a huge flock of birds flew across the horizon, looking picturesque and something only an incredibly gifted writer could have written, something unfortunately I cannot adequately describe to you.

And as enlightening as the sunset when there was no sun at all, and magically depressing as it all should have been to me, I still hold onto the image of the woman.  In all her vulnerability, she was beautiful, the most beautiful I have ever seen her.  I don't expect you to understand.  It was like in a photograph or a painting.  And it was beautiful.  Human emotion is beautiful.  Even the tears.  Even the despondency.  Life is beautiful.  And maybe death can be too. Because I saw what I saw, and what I saw, that was beautiful.