I've had it happen a few times now where I've had some kind of appointment where I'm meeting a new/temporary doctor or explaining a situation to a Nurse Practitioner or Physician's Assistant or other healthcare professional. I come with a lot of medical baggage, which involves quite a bit of story time because everything in my care must be considered very holistically.
This, of course, is all related in my own unique way, full of dry humor and rather flippant verbage considering some of the disasters and harsh realities that I have lived with and through. Sometimes, there's even a "and THEN this happened" kind of chain when they're shocked at the first fallout with the next and the next, all started with a quick couple of questions about past surgeries, an old scar, or my litany of current medications.
There is a particular look, though, that I've seen once or twice that sticks out to me. In my head, I call it the "Oh, Honey..." look. This expression is one of regret and sympathy. These are usually people that have enough medical experience or similar life experience to start to grasp the ramifications of what I'm talking about, that it's a chronic and complicated situation. Sometimes, they double check my age. I might mention that I've had Crohn's since I was twelve. The "Oh, Honey..." look might then get a little deeper crease in the brows or include a small head-shake.
I have some cognitive dissonance regarding this look.
There is a part of me that is gratified.
There is a part of me that is sad, too.
There is a part of me that is just plain confused.
Most people do not understand what it is like to live with a chronic condition, something that you are acutely aware of every day, and I'm glad for them. However, to anyone that has to constantly check their blood sugar or run through a mental checklist to ensure that they have enough energy or pack different kinds of emergency bags that come with them whenever they leave the house, it's a different kind of reality. It is always in the back of my mind. So to meet someone that understands either because they have their own experience or they have enough medical knowledge to have an idea? There's a bond there. For a moment, I know that I am understood, that this person grasps me on a level that some close friends cannot.
I think that's what I appreciate when I'm on the receiving end of the "Oh, Honey..." look. I don't like seeking attention for what I've gone through, but at the same time, I know that I need be able to express certain emotions and stressors and feel that I have communicated them effectively, the what it really means part. I've gotten to a point where I can often recognize that I need to vent now or I just need generic consoling or I need to be distracted, but there is still a part of me that feels guilty for asking, even though I know I shouldn't. I'm still endeavoring to find the most beneficial ways to cope, looking out for new and better strategies. But if someone can understand what's implied, that saves me a long explanation and a lot of frustration. If someone can know what the test I had to take already entails, I don't have to stop in the middle of what I'm saying to explain and instead use that time to talk about whatever the main point is that I needed to get to. Because sometimes it can take me a while to really find that point and put words to something that is just understood. There are some things that I try to get across to my husband, where I end up saying the same things again and again because as empathetic and kind as he is, there are some things that he still does not understand to the real depth of what I mean.
Medical professionals and those close to people with chronic illness can master the "Oh, Honey..." look. Those with the experience tend to have a slightly different expression, the wry smile and nod, the "Yeah, that does suck" look, if you will. Both of these have that understanding, but the degree of understanding is different. Both are appreciated; one is just deeper. Both can reflect support, so both are helpful.
As an example, I need the "Oh, Honey..." crowd to recognize that if I turn down an offer, it is because my reserve of energy is not sufficient; I need the "Yeah, that does suck" group to talk about how some people just don't get it. My support system is complex and pretty solid--I've got a "Yeah, that does suck" person right in the family, even. I don't tend to have many people actively trying to convince or guilt me to do things I don't have the energy for. I have some people who ask me how I am and mean it sincerely, not letting me get away with a flippant response. I have some people ask me the right kinds of questions when I'm getting everything off my chest, helping me identify things that I hadn't thought of yet. To fill in the gaps, I'm looking at getting a counselor again. This is not a failure on my support system's part but a recognition that I still have some things to unpack, need an unbiased resource, and know that problems in every system are best treated by a specialist.
Sometimes, though, the best way I have found to help wade through my own problems is to help someone with theirs. Everyone is fighting their own battle. It may not be with chronic illness, no, but everyone is working through something and it significant to them. There is actually a word for this awareness: sonder--"the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own." There are some places where I can do the "Oh, Honey..." look, but that is the deepest level I can understand in that case. But that can still be helpful support. As a side effect, it offers me perspective. And even if the something is better or worse than what I'm going through, I know that their feelings are valid. I know that I would want someone to just listen to me in those moments, too.
And I know that we're all in this together. How do we build each other up on our individual journeys? How can we do this better in the future? How can we remember that this person's concerns are valid even if we have heard it for the umpteenth time or secretly think they're overreacting? It's exhausting to be empathetic all the time: how can we recognize when we really should be listening?
Compassion is more important than we give it credit for. Empathy can make all the difference. Real understanding can change someone's life or at least get through it for now. And sometimes that's enough, just to survive one day at a time.
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