truth or consequences

Don't judge anyone, ever. Not for their green hair, or the ring in their nose, or the tattoo on their bum. Not for the clothes they wear, or the car they drive, or the shelter they depend on. That's one lesson I learned at the "Writing from the Heart" workshop with Nancy Slonim Aronie. Don't judge people when you don't know their stories. You can't tell what they've been through by the look on their faces when you pass them on the street. You can't imagine the heartache that keeps them up at night. If you knew, you'd invite them all in for milk and cookies.

"Everyone you meet is fighting

a battle you know nothing about.

Be kind. Always."

~Robin Williams~

Another lesson we learned? Humans need to feel safe. Free from judgement. Embraced just as they are, all tattered and torn. Why? Because until they feel safe, they'll never tell us their stories. Unless they can cry right there in front of people--strangers, even--without fear, they won't say a word.

"Lokah Samastah Sukino Bhavantu."

~May all beings, everywhere, be happy and free~

At this workshop, twenty-two of us, strangers one and all, sat in a circle and bled onto the page for 10-15 minutes at a time to prompts like these:

• The hardest thing...
• What I didn't tell you then...
• A time you acted one way, but felt another...
• Dinner at my house...
• I picked up the phone...
• Waiting...

At the end of fifteen minutes, we read what we had written. This wasn't one of those workshops that invites you to read your piece if you'd like to...because you're so proud of it. No--everyone read what they had written. 

"As a writer, the worst thing

you can do is to work

in an environment of fear of rejection."

~Carol Leifer~

It wasn't the quality of our prose that mattered, but the depth of feeling and the honesty that went into it. There were tears and there was laughter. There were breakthroughs. Transformations. Victories. 

Here's one piece: 

True Story:

A time I acted one way, but felt another...

Visiting hours had ended. The lights had been turned down for the night. Except for an insistent call bell somewhere down the hall, the floor was quiet.

I was standing at the nurses' station with the attending on the case, Dr. Bush, and a man he introduced as the husband of the latest after-hours admission. 

Dr. Bush presented the case in standard rhythm and verse: "The patient is a 46-year-old Caucasian female who presents with a one-month history of shortness of breath and cough, a twenty-five-pound weight loss, and night sweats. She is being admitted for further evaluation and treatment."

He slipped her X-rays into the viewing box, and there it was--the smattering of hazy white balls in both lungs that shouted the word "cancer."

Dr. Bush glanced at the patient's husband. "Paul?"

The man straightened his shoulders and looked me in the eye. "The word cancer is not to be used around my wife. Do you understand?" he said. A tear escaped. "It would kill her if she knew."

Suddenly, what appeared to be a sad but straight forward case became a moral dilemma.

Dr. Bush repeated, "Doctor? Do you understand? She is not to hear the word cancer. Tell her anything, just not that."

The name of this game is "Let's Pretend." Let's pretend the patient doesn't have cancer. That it's something else. Let's pretend that this will somehow make it easier for her. That it will erase her worry, relieve her pain, give her hope.

But what was I supposed to say when she asked, "What's the matter with me, Doctor? What did you find?"

That pneumonia sometimes presents like this? That even adults can develop asthma later in life? That we'll get to the bottom of this, don't you worry?

How will she prepare for the end? Who will be there to help? Who will stay at her bedside and hold her when she cries? How will she say goodbye to her children? How will she plan her funeral? Who will choose the music and prayers?

I wanted to say, "No, Dr. Bush. I do not understand. It isn't right to lie to her. This isn't the time to pretend."

Instead, I picked up my stethoscope and started down the hallway to the patient's room. 

So, what would it be? Tell her the truth, or face the consequences?

*

Go ahead. Give it a try. Tell us what, for you, was the hardest thing. What you wish you had done differently. What you wish you had said but didn't. You have fifteen minutes. Go!

Then, find a safe person and read it to him or her.

"Write your story on my heart."

~Brene Brown~

jan