Borderline tears

If you think about all of the tears shed by victims of cancer and their friends and family, I suppose they would fill an ocean, albeit an invisible one. As I thought about a good friend’s recent plight with breast cancer, my tears seemed inconsequential, almost an afterthought. I waited days, weeks for them to fall. However, they took me by surprise, as I sat in the intersection, looking for the opportunity to turn left at a light on my way to work one December morning, at about 6 a.m.

I can’t say what set off the tears at the traffic light between Drug Mart and the Dairy Queen, but they seemed to come out of nowhere, big fat drops that splashed down my nose and face, fogging my glasses and landing on my sweater. By the time I’d reached my parking spot at school, the tears were gone, like one of those random summertime showers that vanish as quickly as they start.

The night before, I went to the hospital to see my friend, who had a mastectomy about 24 hours earlier. Part of me didn’t want to visit, and I nearly turned around and left. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see my friend, but I wasn’t sure how I’d react, and whether or not I could hold it together for her or more importantly, for me.

Hauensteins, for whatever reason, seem to have some perverted pride in holding it together and not crying, or as my father would say, “making a scene,” in public.
Not all members of my family are unemotional. In fact, I’d say we’re more reserved than lacking emotion. We just reserve our emotions mainly for each other. I can remember many a Saturday afternoon pig-moving session on the farm that was filled with emotion. Or emotion when the hay bine broke down on a summer morning the day before a week of rain was forecast. Or when I’ve had too many Kleenex or papers in my pants pockets in the washer. Or when one of the outside cats runs in the house, and hides when I open the door, my hands filled with bags and packages and the phone is ringing. Those kinds of emotions, I suppose. Emotions they are, nonetheless.

My mother might be one of the most caring and loving people I know. However, even on her side of the family, emotions are reserved for private moments. I think my Grandma Muncy cringed any time one of her grandchildren let out a wail. My mother, however, has always had a gentle soothing voice for her grandkids, even for her children.

I am convinced that over-made “reality” shows on television have persuaded us that it’s OK to completely lapse into hysterics, scream and act like Vivian Leigh on steroids, as if Atlanta burns every five minutes in our lives. When whatever burning General Sherman really does march into our personal life and set it on fire, we are too busy crying wolf to see the real calamity and react with love and compassion, for ourselves and others

So, as I walked into the hospital room 12 hours before my tears fell, I did everything humanly possible to hold in the emotions, and be as cool, calm and collected as I could. Lying in her hospital bed in pain, on a morphine drip, my friend looked incredibly frail and small, while her husband and children fussed over her. As a tall, svelte former aerobics instructor, frail would not be a word to describe her. Yet, on the bed, she seemed to evaporate into the sheets.

I smiled, and made some small talk, joking, as she spoke, barely in a whisper. On the inside, I was dying. I wanted to sob, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry I’m not being strong for you.” I think a lot of friends and family of cancer victims feel the same way. We, as a good Hauenstein would, hold it together for the sake of the person next to us who is crumbling into a disease we can’t comprehend.

After about a month of teaching, I felt as though I could burst into tears at any moment. One morning, as I walked to my first class, my colleague said, “Are you all right?” Holding back the tears and looking straight ahead, I said, “Yes. Fine. Just a little tired.” She laughed and said, “You’re a terrible liar.” She was right. I stepped out of the classroom a couple of times, to wipe my eyes, and hold it together, the emotion and lack of sleep from the new job seemed to eat at me.

However, those tears were for me, in my own predicament. When dealing with someone else’s pain and suffering, or need to cry, I do my best to show empathy, compassion, and all of the things I should be feeling, all the while hoping they don’t explode in me. And if they did, it wouldn’t be a sign of weakness on their part, but a moment of human-ness. But if I were to do the same, for whatever twisted reason, it would be the exact opposite in my mind. It’s like some weird need to hold it together, for the sake of saving humanity.

My friend returned to teaching this week, and told me she had times when she just needed to weep. “Why?” I asked, uncertain what would set this off. “Just because. Because I’m (messed) up,” she said. I laughed. Inside, I thought, “No, you’re not. You’re very brave, and human, and at least you can let out the emotions.”

We get embarrassed at the thought of losing control of our calm and reserve, and in essence, control of the situation. I don’t think we ever truly have control over some situation in the first place. Secondly, a few tears never made the earth stop turning. For those with ill loved ones, holding our own emotions in check may be the only thing we can control, even if it eats at us. We won’t let them see us grieve. It’s OK if they openly grieve, but not us. A strange set of rules we make in life, isn’t it?

For me, the microburst of tears that December morning didn’t make me any weaker, or even stronger, for that matter. It didn’t heal my friend or make the world a better place. It just made me more of what I am: human.