Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, July 30, 1990 TAG: 9007310334
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A/7 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Of course there's a large reception room with chairs lined up around the walls and magazines scattered about.
There's also a tiny, dimly lit waiting-room in the back for patients with drops in their eyes.
And there's a short row of chairs in the secretaries' area for patients who're between the big reception room and their examinations.
I've visited this same ophthalmalogist's office since I was 5, so the different chairs in their different spaces help mark the stages of what are, for me, usually routine visits. I'm comfortable along the whole route.
Except for that short row of chairs in the secretaries' area. They can still make me cringe.
Some years ago, maybe as many as 20, when it came to my time in those chairs, I sat down next to another woman who was staring at the floor.
I was young and thought I knew everything. "She wants to be alone," I assured myself, and I looked the other way.
Behind us, in one of the tiny examining rooms, I could hear the doctor talking to his assistant, even though the door was closed. "Hold her head very still," he said.
A baby started crying. "Very still," the doctor said again. "You'll have to hold her tighter. Don't let her move." The baby cried more.
And then he screamed. He screamed and screamed with that wrenching desperate cry of confused children in pain.
I began staring at the floor, too. The sound was terrible. Without looking, I could tell that the woman beside me was crying along with the baby.
At first, tears merely ran down her cheeks. But then she began to sob, and no matter how tightly she balled her fists in her lap, she couldn't shut out the sounds of her baby's fear and pain, nor could she do anything to relieve it.
I wanted to reach across and grasp that woman's hand. I wanted to give her some little help. But I didn't do it.
"Leave her alone," I told myself again. "You don't want to embarrass her."
So I just sat there, pretending not to notice. I refrained from looking at the woman directly. I didn't reach out to her.
The procedure was quick, and soon the baby was returned to his mother. The doctor was kind and consoling. Then it was time for me to move to another set of chairs, so I did. Still without looking at the woman, who was stroking her baby's head.
Whenever I sit in that short row of chairs, I remember my callousness. I was wrong to sit there so cold, so haughty, and I wish I could go back, could do it right this time. I wish I could squeeze her hand.
It's selfish to withhold the comforting gesture, however small, because you think, "What good could I possibly do?" Or because you think you're saving the sufferer embarrassment by pretending the grief doesn't exist.
Understanding and empathy, even for a stranger, spread a remarkable balm. I have no silly notion that by touching that woman's hand I would have taken away her pain. But nothing in this world is quite as difficult for the sufferer if the suffering can be shared.
Now I try much harder to extend my hand. It's not always easy, and I don't always succeed. Sometimes I'm rebuffed. Sometimes I'm too frightened to try.
But only the other times matter.
by CNB