Unfeeling
All I wanted was a greeting card; a gesture of thoughtfullness to my sister-in-law who survived a year of breast cancer terror to get another birthday. But the store owner from the hidden recess of the purchase counter kept interrupting my search with helpful advice. When I finally gave in to courtesy and acknowledged her with a real look I saw she had cancer.
She would not relinquish her attention on me. In the manner of a compliment she insisted she recognized me from the past--the late 1970's when she worked at a boutique on the Plaza--a time before I lived here. I couldn't disappoint her with a correction since her need to connect was so poignantly apparent. So I listened while she shared what was on her mind (surviving cancer) and to be generous I offered my connection to the cancer-world through my sister-in-law while I continued browsing though the card carousel looking for anything without the mention of hope, coping, strength, purpose, paths, or journeys: No images of birds, oak trees, rainbows, butterflies, or bodies of sun-lit water either. Meanwhile she continued chatting and sharing. She liked my handbag, by the way. And then she liked two or three other things.
Treatments and meds, signs and omens, and really, I just wanted to buy my card and get on my way. Veiling this impulse, wondering if it showed much, I countered by giving her as much eye contact as possible all the while falling deeper into myself. I was evaluating: Yes, an ill stranger deserves a fair share of attention. Is 10 minutes sufficient to keep me in the margins of compassion? Am I heartless in that I don't really feel like drawing any deep meaning from this encounter?
I imagined she was drawing all kinds of meaning from it. She told me she's kept a tally of women with breast cancer who've entered her gift shop. Every little thing means something bigger to her. I know it's that she doesn't want to feel alone. She feels the need to touch and make contact with everything in her path. But for me, for today and for all my usual days without the thought of death, I'm just not interested. I just want to buy a birthday card.
She would not relinquish her attention on me. In the manner of a compliment she insisted she recognized me from the past--the late 1970's when she worked at a boutique on the Plaza--a time before I lived here. I couldn't disappoint her with a correction since her need to connect was so poignantly apparent. So I listened while she shared what was on her mind (surviving cancer) and to be generous I offered my connection to the cancer-world through my sister-in-law while I continued browsing though the card carousel looking for anything without the mention of hope, coping, strength, purpose, paths, or journeys: No images of birds, oak trees, rainbows, butterflies, or bodies of sun-lit water either. Meanwhile she continued chatting and sharing. She liked my handbag, by the way. And then she liked two or three other things. Treatments and meds, signs and omens, and really, I just wanted to buy my card and get on my way. Veiling this impulse, wondering if it showed much, I countered by giving her as much eye contact as possible all the while falling deeper into myself. I was evaluating: Yes, an ill stranger deserves a fair share of attention. Is 10 minutes sufficient to keep me in the margins of compassion? Am I heartless in that I don't really feel like drawing any deep meaning from this encounter?
I imagined she was drawing all kinds of meaning from it. She told me she's kept a tally of women with breast cancer who've entered her gift shop. Every little thing means something bigger to her. I know it's that she doesn't want to feel alone. She feels the need to touch and make contact with everything in her path. But for me, for today and for all my usual days without the thought of death, I'm just not interested. I just want to buy a birthday card.
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