In the face of pain…

“How are you?”  A question I hear and ask all the time.  But what do I mean by it?  Is it simply a formality?  Or is it intended to be an opening for me to tell how I have been?  Am I prepared to receive a real answer?  What if the answer is an outpouring of pain?

What can I say?  I cannot say “I understand,” because I don’t.  I have never experienced the loss of a child.  I have never gone through the confusion, anger, and uncertainty of divorce.  I have never had to worry about where my next meal was coming from.  “Don’t worry, it’ll get better.”  No…I don’t know that it will get better, so that is just a phony attempt to minimalize.  It’s a way for me to change the conversation because I feel uncomfortable.  “Well, when I was in a similar situation…”  Maybe similar, maybe not, but not the same.  My experience is just that – my experience.  Telling how I was able to dig myself out of my situation is simply tooting my own horn.  Unless asked for, it is unlikely to be of any help at all.  “It could be worse…” doesn’t offer any consolation.  We all know that for everything bad that might happen to us, someone else has it worse.  Knowing that doesn’t make our own situations any easier to deal with, or lessen the pain one whit.  “Remember how bad it was when you <insert situation> and you got through that.”  That situation was different and the fact that one got through it doesn’t mean that one has acquired the strength and skills necessary to get through the current situation.  Another poor attempt to provide hope.  When both know that the attempt is empty, the pain is still very real, very alive, and very present.

But I do know what pain feels like.  The causes of pain may be different, but the feeling has common features:  sorrow, worry, uncertainty regarding the future, inability to concentrate.  There is the aching pressure in the chest, that lumpy feeling in the throat and the awareness that, at any time, tears could come spilling out.  I’ve been there.  Probably we all have at one time or another. 

So what helps my pain?  Having another care enough about me to listen.  No matter how long it takes, no matter how inarticulate I am, no matter how many times I repeat myself.  Not worrying about the tears rolling down my cheek or the words stuck in my throat.  Having someone listen to my story and simply, lovingly, hold it.

“How are you, really?”  In the face of pain I can say “You are not alone.  I am here, listening.”