I live in a townhouse so every morning my neighbor’s hacking cough comes through the wall and wakes me up. After my initial annoyance wears off I have a moment of compassion and think “she’s really gotta quit smoking.”
Last night was payback when I was up till three in the morning sobbing like a schoolgirl watching General Hospital. After three trips to the bathroom to blow my nose I finally brought the toilet paper back to the bedroom so I could finish bawling while presumably giving my neighbor nightmares of a shrieking phantom.
Why was I sobbing so heartily you might ask? Well, what began as a general sense of self-pity and emasculated frustration over the unfairness of life ended up being something much larger. I had a sudden insight into an event I experienced last summer. I was visiting my mom and her husband at their lake house. At around 10 that evening her husband started having breathing difficulty. We called the ambulance and waited. Twenty minutes later they arrived to take him to the hospital. He died on the way.
As I remembered that experience I felt tremendous shame over how I had handled it. Up until now I had deluded myself into thinking that I had been an innocent witness to a tragic event. In reality that was the exact problem. While I offered him words of encouragement during his ordeal I now realize how much more helpful I could have been. As this man laid there struggling with his last breaths I stood there emotionally frozen and unable to generate sincere comfort for him. As silly as it seems, the one thing I regret was that I didn’t start rubbing his feet. That would have been nice. He would have liked that.
But instead I tried to reassure him with vague, empty words as I stood numb to his suffering. I guess the reason it bothers me so much is that I really loved him. He was a beautiful man. You’d have liked him. An hour prior to his death we sat in the living room and had a very detailed conversation on the beauty of the wood ceiling. Then we finished off the last two bowls of ice cream together. Being around Dale always felt good.
As I sit now and process this discovery I realize that forgiveness is in order. Dale would understand my mistake. He would forgive me. Now I have to forgive myself. And with that forgiveness comes a lesson learned. When people need help, give it. If the day ever comes when my neighbor’s hacking cough turns into a 911 call I won’t be watching from a distance. I'm going to step in and start rubbing her feet.
I love you Dale.
Last night was payback when I was up till three in the morning sobbing like a schoolgirl watching General Hospital. After three trips to the bathroom to blow my nose I finally brought the toilet paper back to the bedroom so I could finish bawling while presumably giving my neighbor nightmares of a shrieking phantom.
Why was I sobbing so heartily you might ask? Well, what began as a general sense of self-pity and emasculated frustration over the unfairness of life ended up being something much larger. I had a sudden insight into an event I experienced last summer. I was visiting my mom and her husband at their lake house. At around 10 that evening her husband started having breathing difficulty. We called the ambulance and waited. Twenty minutes later they arrived to take him to the hospital. He died on the way.
As I remembered that experience I felt tremendous shame over how I had handled it. Up until now I had deluded myself into thinking that I had been an innocent witness to a tragic event. In reality that was the exact problem. While I offered him words of encouragement during his ordeal I now realize how much more helpful I could have been. As this man laid there struggling with his last breaths I stood there emotionally frozen and unable to generate sincere comfort for him. As silly as it seems, the one thing I regret was that I didn’t start rubbing his feet. That would have been nice. He would have liked that.
But instead I tried to reassure him with vague, empty words as I stood numb to his suffering. I guess the reason it bothers me so much is that I really loved him. He was a beautiful man. You’d have liked him. An hour prior to his death we sat in the living room and had a very detailed conversation on the beauty of the wood ceiling. Then we finished off the last two bowls of ice cream together. Being around Dale always felt good.
As I sit now and process this discovery I realize that forgiveness is in order. Dale would understand my mistake. He would forgive me. Now I have to forgive myself. And with that forgiveness comes a lesson learned. When people need help, give it. If the day ever comes when my neighbor’s hacking cough turns into a 911 call I won’t be watching from a distance. I'm going to step in and start rubbing her feet.
I love you Dale.
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