Sunday, February 19, 2012

Empathy

Today I was watching Parenthood. It's one of those shows that's good enough to make the DVR rotation, but not so good that you feel an obligation to watch it quickly. Weekend DVR material, the kind of thing you leave on in the background while you sort the laundry. I have a weird affinity for ensemble family dramas. Anyway, about halfway through the show there's a scene where the autistic son of one couple invites the disabled son of another over. Both parents are excited, there's an exchange of information, and the mother of the disabled boy says something along the lines of "We're so glad he has a friend. He's never had a friend before." I couldn't say exactly why, but for some reason this line made me cry.

I virtually never used to cry. I long ago mastered the male ethos of keeping it together, pushing the feelings down, and moving on to the next action item. It's not that hard once you get the hang of it really. The habit is much harder to pick back up once you've broken it though. I've had streaks of years without tears. Not anymore. I'm lucky if I hit hours now.

When something like this happens, you become more aware. You notice the thin lines and forced cheerfulness in a stranger's face when the word "cancer" slips off their tongue, always just casual enough that it won't end the conversation. You recognize the strain in their voice, and know that the "handling it well" that they're speaking of is really a polite euphemism for walking upright rather than falling to the ground and bawling their eyes out. I never noticed all that before, because I did not know. It's like I've been exposed to the vast sadness at the core of things, and cannot look past it to the facade. It's not a completely bad thing. I do more for people. I'm more empathetic. I'm probably a better person though frankly I could have done without the self-improvement.

So I find myself crying at inopportune moments, pausing between folding undershirts to cry at an actor's honestly not all that convincing delivery on a recorded television show. Like an idiot, I'm now journeying mentally through this fictional person and her lonely son's battle with spinal bifida. I am imparting far, far too much pathos to the scene. I'm drifting from stoic to that obnoxious person in the movie theater.

At the heart of it of course, is that I miss him. I miss his smile and his laugh. I miss his probing eyes and his little fingers wrapped around mine. I miss his smell, trapped, but fading, in the clothes resting idle in his drawers. I miss him all the time.

Thank you for your continued thoughts and prayers.

13 comments:

  1. Again, thank you for your vulnerability and candor. I wish this sorrow wasn't so real in your life but it is and I pray for you two often.

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  2. Thank you for your honesty on where you are today.

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  3. I read every one of your posts (and Kara's too). I rarely comment simply because I am not as articulate as the two of you and sometimes can't find the words to express my thoughts to you and Kara. But I think it is important to let you know that I pray for you, Kara and your extended family. I am sorry for the ache and pain you feel daily. I always ask God to comfort you and to give you the strength to get through each day. I pray God is uniting you and Kara in a deeper, stronger and sweeter love. You are not forgotten. And I will not grow weary of praying for you.
    Blessings,
    Lisa Kirkes, San Dimas, CA

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  4. I'm so sorry, Matthew. God remains close to the brokenhearted. He knows how you are suffering. I pray that he will bless you with comfort.

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  5. All I have to offer is a feeble "I am sorry". I remember your James. Though I never met him. I can conjur images in my head of his spectacular blue eyes and full thick, if somewhat wild, hair. I remember James because, you, his parents, have so beautifully shared him. I know that one day happiness and joy will replace the sorrow. But it will never fully abate. Because James was here. James mattered. James was perfect. James was. And so I am so very sorry for your pain and pray each day and especially Sunday's at Mass, that the hope of forever is enough to sustain you until he is in your arms again. Wild hair, beautiful smile, amazing blue eyes, filling your arms again.

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  6. so true...beautiful words.
    achingly beautiful...

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  7. Kara and James, today I spent all my day reading all your blog. What a nice boy, today and for now on he´ll be my angel too. I admire you so much, you both are really brave.
    Thanks a lot for sharing your history with us, totally strangers.
    Hope everything gets better.

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  8. Words just fail me. I actually enjoy Parenthood and that same line brought tears to my eyes too. I, too, wish I could say comforting and soothing words to ease your grief and pain but the words fail me and that saddens me. All I can keep telling you is that I think of and pray for you so often hoping that sends you comfort all the way from Michigan!

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  9. "It's like I've been exposed to the vast sadness at the core of things, and cannot look past it to the facade."--this may be one of the most insightful comments I've ever read regarding the experience of loss and grief. I am a social worker--I lead conferences on grief-management and loss (as well as having experienced some significant grief of my own). I may use this quote (properly cited). Amazing...

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  10. Prayers and thoughts from Chicago
    :-)

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  11. As a fellow traveler on the road after loss, tears come quickly to me too. As a child, crying was not acceptable, even though I am a girl/woman/mother now. I learned to cry backwards - to tilt my head just so, and the welling tears would slide back, down through the whole nose-to-throat anatomy. I can't or don't do it anymore. My sister told me very soon after our son's death, that she felt that tears were a good thing, in fact a healing balm, a gift of the holy spirit. Not being able to control when they come is a struggle, but the hot, wet tracks down my cheeks are far more calming than so many swallowed tears. Like cleansing a wound, tears with their heat and saltiness, are a part of the healing (scarring?) of this gaping hole. I hope that I always feel them, and am blessed enough to recognize them as the gift they are to me. I pray for both of you, and now for your tears.

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  12. I have never met you, I stumbled upon your blog one day in September of this year and I was drawn in by your beautiful boy. I spent hours reading and praying. I am so thankful that you have painted such a vivid picture of him. He lives in my heart, I pray for him and for you often.

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  13. Matthew, you are a rare human being. I know you probably don't feel that, nor does it matter to you right now. But you are. So few men even allow themselves to be 'tuned in' to their emotions the way you are....and my prayer for you and Kara, is that you continue to honor the people you truly are, on this journey you've been given. You certainly do an awesome job of it on this blog. Jamesie will never truly be gone, because of the people you are and what you have chosen to share with the world. Even if you don't get to experience him in the way you long to do.

    "It's like I've been exposed to the vast sadness at the core of things, and cannot look past it to the facade." I can understand why it may feel like this.....but I truly believe that you are being exposed to the 'layer' of vast sadness that actually wraps the core of things..."HOPE"....up in it's grasp. One cannot truly exist without the other, and I believe the facade is that we can live a life at all, without either of them. Much love and caring sent your and Kara's way.

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