"On Healing" July 2007

Posted on Mon, July 23, 2007
Misfortune gives life new meaning
By Dan Gottlieb

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

Max Ehrmann, "Desiderata"

It's called bradycardia: an abnormally slow or unsteady heart rhythm that can cause dizziness and extreme fatigue. Often, there are no symptoms, and it's not always a problem; many athletes in great condition have low heart rates. So do quadriplegics (obviously for very different reasons). My slow heart rate caused no problems until a couple of weeks ago, when it slowed down even further. I became lightheaded and extremely tired. The cardiologist said a pacemaker was in order -- emergency surgery.

I've always felt that every stage of life is a good news/bad news story. First, despite the odds, you are born. (That's good news.) Your parents, however, have no idea what they are doing and will never tell you that. Plus, the odds are almost 50-50 that they will split up.

Next comes puberty. Anyone who has been through it knows the good and bad news those hormones bring. Marriage? More good and bad, sometimes moment by moment.

Good news can carry bad news, too. You get the dream job and hate the commute. You finally have a baby and feel incredible bliss - and still do even as worry creeps in. Your child gets into the college she wants, then calls to complain about her roommate, while you pay for tuition as well as the cell phone.

Even crises bring good news along with the bad. I have known many people whose devastating diagnoses caused them to live the lives they had always wanted. Inevitably, those changes involve spending more time with people and things they love. Several years ago, I worked with a man whose child was tragically killed. Until that time, his life was extremely busy with a high-powered career. After nearly a year of deep mourning, however, he slowly became involved with an orphanage in Tibet. He feels the agony of his loss every day, and says his life has never felt so relevant.

With bradycardia, the bad news is obvious. There is something wrong with my heart. I am not myself. Surgery, no matter how promising the odds, is always risky.

And the good news? Sometimes, when the fatigue is really bad, all I can do is sit and look out at my backyard. I don't have the energy to worry about the future, as I usually do; I just watch what's in front of me. I never really noticed how many shades of green there are on a single tree or how quiet nature seems on a summer day. Or how everything changes when there is a breeze, or a cloud passes over. I notice things about people around me as well - how their eyes look when they're tired or the tenderness behind their worry. I notice things the way I did when I was little, before my life and I got busy with one another.

As my body slows down, something inside begins to open up. That's true for all of us.

I finished this column and then e-mailed it to my editor 14 days ago, the night before going in for surgery. "So by the time you read this," I wrote, "I'll probably have a pacemaker and my heart will be back to normal" - in hindsight, interesting wording, and timing, that may be worth exploring in a future column.

In any event, the pacemaker was installed, and my heart is back to its normal, slow self. That's good news. But if I no longer take the time to be quiet enough to notice all the shades of green, that's bad news.

Posted on Mon, July 9, 2007
It's a small but poignant gesture
By Dan Gottlieb

My last column was about four words I believed could make the world a better place. If a person could simply say to another, "Tell me your story," and then listen quietly, both people would change. Within days, I received hundreds of letters requesting "Tell Me Your Story" bumper stickers I'd promised free, and almost as many e-mails - all from people wanting to join a movement that could change the planet through the listening to others' stories.

A woman in Montgomery County said she wanted to open a coffeehouse where people would come just to listen to one another's stories. She'd call it "Cup of Grace." A dental hygienist in New Jersey said she used to ask her patients how they were doing. After facing colon cancer, however, she became a better, more caring listener. Now she asks patients to tell her their stories. She told me she keeps a journal filled with some of the incredibly touching and open stories she has heard. Several writers said the most stressful part of their jobs is that they don't have time to really listen to people. Loraine, 83, wrote, requesting a bumper sticker and then told me her story about the loss of a brother in World War II.

Nancy, a sign-language interpreter, told me that when she has heard the stories of people who are deaf and hard of hearing, she's been awestruck by their courage. And then she realized something: Their stories are no more incredible than many other people's. She said she imagined that deaf people benefited from her listening because they live in a world where many people don't take the time to hear their stories. But isn't that the case with all of us? Furthermore, don't we all - at least, all of us who ask - share Nancy's experience that the stories she hears change her in ways she can't explain?

Many correspondents asked if I would tell my story. Of course, I've had the honor of telling it through my writings and radio show. But here is my listening story:

Many years ago, I wrote about how an act of compassionate listening saved my life. It was shortly after my 1979 accident. I was feeling useless, worthless and hopeless. I didn't want to continue my life as a quadriplegic. That evening, a nurse - someone who also was in great despair - approached me. Knowing I was a psychologist, she asked if she could talk to me.

It is said that King Solomon used to pray for the ability to hear with his heart. For the time we spent together, I heard that nurse with my heart. I understood her suffering, and she knew it. At the end of our conversation, her telling, my listening, I recommended a therapist and she thanked me. My feelings about my life and my future changed after that interaction because I knew I had been able to contribute to the welfare of another human being by simply listening.

Most readers who wrote in over the last two weeks discussed the value of listening. But I'd like you to tell me your stories. What is it like to live inside your skin? What do you most want people to understand about you? My radio show will be on this topic next Monday. Or you can send me a brief e-mail, ideally a few hundred words. I'll post some on my Web site.

By the way, I just ordered another batch of bumper stickers, so feel free to write in (with a stamped, self-addressed envelope) and get yours.

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