4.4.03 sympathy

After the biopsy I was moody and irritable; my mind was tangled up with memories of mean high school teachers and abstract thoughts about prejudice. I bought a burrito at Villa Victoria and drove around for awhile brooding.

That evening I started dinner, listened to the children chattering, and greeted my lovely husband when he came home from work. It was a perfectly normal day. The biopsy was not difficult, or scary, or painful. But precisely because I was not upset, I started to ponder other parts of the illness experience, beyond the political aspects I usually choose to think about.

Byron, I asked, why don't I ever get any sympathy when I'm sick?

He sighed. This conversation has become routine. Well, Bee, probably because you don't tell anyone when there is something wrong.

But even when I do tell people, they either don't pay attention or don't do anything.

He shrugged. You don't want that kind of attention. People see you as strong. Sympathy is a reflection of weakness.

But what if I want support?

You don't.

Yes I do.

You can't handle it.

Yes I can! Tell me what to do. I need training.

Okay, but you won't like it. The first step is telling someone what happened today. Not through an essay. You have to talk to one of your friends.

I grimaced. Ugh.

He laughed at me. See? The next step is to admit that you have a problem, and listen to a friend express concern.

I turned back to the stove. Never mind. Let's just plan our next excursion. Did you tell anyone we are visiting?

He left the room for a minute and came back with the list of Portland phone numbers. He picked up the phone and dialed. Hello? Anna Ruby?....

The conversation went on at great length, catching up on two seasons apart. Anna Ruby has been in Europe, we have a new life in Seattle. Byron told stories about the children and work. Then AR passed the phone to Stevie Ann.

Stevie has gone as my date to weddings and events; she was our roadie on the Breeder tour; she has slept on the floor at my aunts house and sweet-talked free tickets to the rodeo at the county fair; she has been my insomniac companion and good true friend. She also just celebrated the first anniversary of the day the car ran over her body. Stevie is one of the only people in my life who can discern the truth behind whatever I'm willing to talk about.

I wanted to talk to Stevie. I haven't seen her since last summer. But I don't use the telephone. Not as a philisophical choice, but because it scares me. I never know what people really mean unless I can see their faces and the way they hold their bodies; the telephone allows people to dissemble, divert, prevaricate, and lie.

Byron laughed and talked and caught up on the news that Erin Scarum got a job searching the desert for bits of the space shuttle. Then he said She is right here; you wanna talk to her? and held the phone out to me.

I glared at him but took the receiver. I shouldn't have asked him for guidance; I should have known he would challenge me to act on the advice.

Hello? So, uh, I had a biopsy today and I was just lamenting the fact that I never get sympathy.....

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