Sweet Relief

I

“I’ve had a lot of false starts,” he said. The blinds on the window were yellow from smoke. The cigarette burned in his hand then orange brightened the end when he took a drag. Noticing his shoes and taking his hands to his face to stop the shaking he said “but I’ve never lacked for love and I’ve always tried my best.”

II

It was Wednesday, June 15^th. The doctor’s appointment was scheduled for 11:45am but all parties probably knew it would do absolutely no good. There was a lack of hope among them; one that seemed to be inborn at times. But they would go through the motions: vitals check, blah blah blah, questions, drinking… What was the point? Wasn’t it some philosopher that said death is sweet relief? Why wait for sweet relief?

III

Wasn’t it Leo Buscaglia that said “I don’t brood over death, I’m too busy living?” Death may be sweet relief but it is permanent when you take it so, measure twice, cut once as they say. They say that, it’s a saying. Anyway [insert lip curl to the side] the point is that he rebounded, made a few changes, got out of the house a little bit more, seemed on the upswing. For as much as the hopelessness seemed inborn, there was a love of laughter and a wistfulness about them that could make them incredibly magnetic at times. When they were on like this, people loved to be around them. They were, in technical terms, a hoot. 

IV

When this “hootiness” ended, on an individual and on a group level is the issue.¹ It ended for him so they were there in the hospice room when he weighed 140lbs and had trouble breathing as the sweet relief drugs took effect. Was the loss of hootiness a gradual process born out over years of false starts and bad decisions and negligence to others and self or was it like a band aid: right off!? Does it matter? Relief is here.

American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and
     statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed.). Washington, DC:
     Author.

Text citation: (American Psychiatric Association, 2013)

Empathy 101

“What the hell makes you think you are capable of empathy!? What makes you think you can somehow step into the shoes of another? You think your life experience has been so broad and so deep that you can step into the shoes of another? How pretentious to the point of pathetic! Disgraceful! You should be ashamed of yourself.” He scowled at the head of the class, pacing back and forth jerking his head and torso about pausing only to stare into the eyes of a student for effect.

“But aren’t we here to learn how to empathize?” came out a voice with equal parts trepidation and confidence.

“Learn to empathize, learn to empathize, learn, llllleeeaaarrrnnn to empathize! Jesus Christ! What are you doing here? Did you learn to be genuine!? Did you? Answer me! Joe Pesci help me they want to learn to empathize! I think we need a break; I think you need to think about what you’ve done here. Yep you need a grown up time out. Go home, just go home and cogitate, put on Yanni or whatever it is you people listen to and think about your actions and their consequences. You better come here next class ready to empathize your asses off. You are going to be stepping into some filthy shoes, shoes that don’t fit, that make you uncomfortable, shoes too tight, too wide, shoes with no heels, shoes with blood all over them, with guilt inside, shoes that hold manipulators and abusers, the abused and manipulated… and you are going to climb inside and walk a mile…and don’t come in here next class talking about sympathizing; I’ll throw yer ass outta my class quicker than you can say DSM IV. So go home, get outta my sight.”

“Aren’t you going to give us a syllabus?”