That's it. And she is not doing the false empathy and encouragement thing which is ultimately alienating. Trying to make someone feel better is not necessarily the way to make him feel better. Just being there is the ticket. But, wait. I am starting to make this into a self help story. Way to go, Doug. Now shut up.
Fay, Surely it's a design error. Amazing that we seem to communicate at all. The entire edifice of modern civilization built on small talk, evasion, and silence. I am as guilty as anyone. I put on emotional body armor first thing in every morning. Wearing masks in public suits me just fine. Which is why I invent characters like Beatrice.
I like this story, Doug. It reminds me of Indian deaths, wakes and funerals; the humor, the rage, the retellings (gossip) mixed with teaching stories, card games and the going-home honour songs. The peoples laughter rising over the lonely howls of rez dogs. Thanks for this lovely little microstory.
Thank you, Debra. Amazing how you can make your world sound so alive (even in death) in just three lines. And, yes, that's the sort of response to death that my Beatrice would appreciate. Lifts my heart.
Thanks, Doug. I really liked this piece. Mike and I have a dear friend who is 81 and in hospice now. It is painful to think about her dying, but there it is, writ all over her body. I see hospice now as a process for her and all of us. My daughter "Cricket" is a doctor at Brigham and Women's in Boston. It is useful to talk with her about the desecration of cancers that take over the body and how and why the body breaks down. In any case, I hope when I get to the point that I want to take myself to the bathroom but can't because I'm too weak to get there that someone will send me to another world.
Lovely story, Doug - straightforward, clean delivery. I was in a high school choir that went a couple of times during each school year to an Assisted Living facility, and the regret I’ve felt about not being kinder and more cheerful with the patients has stayed with me (haunted me, even) for decades. Aging is so much more difficult than I anticipated, and I wish I’d been able to share some joy with them (or, as you contemplate in your story, just the right wirds of comfort) instead of finding their fragility unnerving.
The trouble with life is there's no owner's manual (I probably wouldn't have read it anyway). My way through now is to view my younger self as a comical and vainglorious bumbler. Very much what I am now, of course. I do know what you mean by "unnerving" though. And aging. Julie, it is so nice to hear from you!
This one touches a chord. My own reading: with Beatrice, the patient are never alone.
Thank you.
That's it. And she is not doing the false empathy and encouragement thing which is ultimately alienating. Trying to make someone feel better is not necessarily the way to make him feel better. Just being there is the ticket. But, wait. I am starting to make this into a self help story. Way to go, Doug. Now shut up.
Out of the mouths of babes… what, I wonder,triggers the change to saying what we dont mean and meaning what we dont say? Not age!
Fay, Surely it's a design error. Amazing that we seem to communicate at all. The entire edifice of modern civilization built on small talk, evasion, and silence. I am as guilty as anyone. I put on emotional body armor first thing in every morning. Wearing masks in public suits me just fine. Which is why I invent characters like Beatrice.
Douglas, you have a wonderful ability to help us into other people’s shoes. Long live Beatrice!
I like this story, Doug. It reminds me of Indian deaths, wakes and funerals; the humor, the rage, the retellings (gossip) mixed with teaching stories, card games and the going-home honour songs. The peoples laughter rising over the lonely howls of rez dogs. Thanks for this lovely little microstory.
Thank you, Debra. Amazing how you can make your world sound so alive (even in death) in just three lines. And, yes, that's the sort of response to death that my Beatrice would appreciate. Lifts my heart.
Thanks, Doug. I really liked this piece. Mike and I have a dear friend who is 81 and in hospice now. It is painful to think about her dying, but there it is, writ all over her body. I see hospice now as a process for her and all of us. My daughter "Cricket" is a doctor at Brigham and Women's in Boston. It is useful to talk with her about the desecration of cancers that take over the body and how and why the body breaks down. In any case, I hope when I get to the point that I want to take myself to the bathroom but can't because I'm too weak to get there that someone will send me to another world.
Deeply touching, Doug. Resonates with me in my 80s.
Lovely story, Doug - straightforward, clean delivery. I was in a high school choir that went a couple of times during each school year to an Assisted Living facility, and the regret I’ve felt about not being kinder and more cheerful with the patients has stayed with me (haunted me, even) for decades. Aging is so much more difficult than I anticipated, and I wish I’d been able to share some joy with them (or, as you contemplate in your story, just the right wirds of comfort) instead of finding their fragility unnerving.
The trouble with life is there's no owner's manual (I probably wouldn't have read it anyway). My way through now is to view my younger self as a comical and vainglorious bumbler. Very much what I am now, of course. I do know what you mean by "unnerving" though. And aging. Julie, it is so nice to hear from you!