The Miserable Road to Compassion

I know, I know, no one wants to hear it and I don’t want to tell how the coughing and slight fevers persist despite the upgraded meds the doctor gave me. Truth be told, this is simply the new norm and I might as well get used to it—at least for a while (hopefully not much) longer. 

 

Meanwhile, I continue to host my one-man Pity Party, feeling both perplexed and sorry for myself. Not exactly wallowing in it—what’s the point?— but simply trying to remember what it used to feel like to be normal. All my tests these past months—the bloodwork, the MRI, the recent chest X-ray, the Covid test—assure me that all is normal, but again, my body is missing that memo.

 

But here’s a useful thought. My pain and suffering is so mild in comparison to what it could be and to what it is for so many. So here’s an opportunity to ramp up my compassion, feel my tiny version of our universal pain and let it connect me to fellow humans far and wide. To go yet further and imagine people going through this (and worse) with no access to health care, with medicine prices beyond their reach, with a terminal diagnosis at the end of their dark tunnel. To think about generations of enslaved human beings who never were granted a sick day, not to mention any kind of doctor care. To imagine going out to the cotton fields in the relentless sun with the nearby overseer brandishing his whip. How did those folks bear up?

 

None of this brings healing and comfort to me nor to the people I’m speaking of. But it’s a good exercise in walking a mile in your neighbor’s shoes, even if they don’t fit, have holes in them and fail to protect your feet from the blistering heat of the pavement. 

 

Meanwhile, life goes on without my consent or blissful participation and right now it’s telling me, “Time to pack your suitcases. No difference if you’re coughing in Salzburg or San Francisco. Might as well give it a go.”

 

And so I will.