Читать книгу Close to the Bone - Jean Shinoda Bolen - Страница 37

If you are in a hospital or at home recovering, still tiring easily and needing all the energy you can muster for your recovery, the opportunity to take the message of the myth to heart and act upon it may apply to visitors and calls. When I think of visiting hours in hospitals, I am reminded of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's observation in Gift from the Sea: “The most exhausting thing in life, I have discovered, is being insincere.”⁶ For both visitors and patients, bedside visits can be tiring and trying. Patients often find themselves needing to reassure their healthy callers that they are fine or will be fine, when they have doubts and fears, or they hear how fine they look when they know it's not true. Patients can be captive audiences, as visitors chatter, tell medical horror stories, or overstay visits. Then there are relatives who seem to be news gatherers, often indistinguishable from bearers of bad tidings, as they pass on stories. Obligatory visits made by well-mannered people are another category. In the midst of a life-threatening illness, a patient may be in a personal underworld and yet be playing the part of a gracious hostess.

To be like Psyche in this situation means saying no at many levels and recognizing the importance of doing so—to hold that symbolic lamp and knife again, to see clearly and take appropriate action. Bedside phones can be disconnected while one sleeps or is not up to receiving calls. Hospitals can let people know that you are not receiving visitors or that visiting time is restricted, which is appropriate medically in intensive care units and other circumstances. Visitors can be limited and therefore selected. However, in convalescence, rehabilitation, ongoing treatment, or remission, there are further decisions that may need to be made because visits from others can help or hinder our efforts to become well.

A clergywoman receiving chemotherapy for cancer comes to my mind. Since she had many friends and a large congregation, there were numerous visitors. In her pastoral role, she was the comforter, and even though she was now the patient, both she and others would fall into the old pattern; she found herself ministering to their concerns for her and hearing about what was going on in their lives. It was draining. While she did not want to talk about herself much, she did not want to be isolated by saying no to having visitors, but something had to be done. With a discriminating heart to feel what was healing and helpful and what was not, she acted and the result was quite wonderful.

What she decided to do fit the needs of her personality and her situation beautifully. She valued her solitude, especially in the mornings, and did not have a knack for the easy sociability that might lift someone else's spirits. She had come to know members of her congregation and had counseled and prayed with them during their difficulties. While she did not want to talk about herself with them, she knew that praying together or being together at a soul level was mutually nourishing. Another consideration was her energy. Seeing more than one person at a time, allowing long visits, or making small talk drained her. On the basis of such considerations, she let it be known what she needed, which was welcomed by people who cared about her. Following her specific requests, she had mornings to herself. No one dropped in. People came in the afternoon for half an hour at the most, greeted her with a hug, had a cup of tea, and prayed in silence with her. They entered a peaceful room, she was prepared for them, and it was a loving and sacred time for both. Each day, it was usual for two people to come, usually separately and as scheduled—for the scheduling itself was part of her solution.

Hearing one woman's story evokes the possibility of doing the same: if she could do that, then what might you do? Her story has made me think about what I might do if I were recuperating or undergoing energy-depleting therapies. The idea of having to carry on insincerely with visitors while sick is more than I would bear. Instead of making small talk, which drains me, I might ask some of my visitors to read aloud from a book that I would enjoy hearing them read. I might ask some to hold my hand and meditate or pray silently with me; like the clergywoman I also know how comforting and healing it is to be together in silence in prayer or meditation. If there was a particular part of my body in need of healing, I would have some visitors lay hands on that place, for I know that love is healing, and that people, animals, and plants grow and heal when touched. I would want to have beauty within sight, and have room for humor, laughter, touch, music, prayer—for soul.

What do you want? What would help heal you? Can you ask for it? Insist upon it? Can you say no to what or who depletes you and bring what you need into your life? Might your actual life, and certainly the quality of it, depend upon choosing to do what nourishes your soul with your time and energy? If you are in the underworld of an illness, then you are in that part of the journey where the task is to say no to anything you do not want to do that takes a toll on your limited strength, no to anything you intuitively realize is wrong for you or wrong timing for you, no to making decisions about which doctors and what treatments you will undergo before you are ready to do so. The ability to act as a warrior on your own behalf may begin with decisions about your visitors and extend from here into the whole of your life.

We take up Psyche's journey as well as her lamp and knife once we face what is wrong and prepare ourselves for what we need to do. Like Psyche, once we are determined to know the truth and are prepared to act decisively, there is no turning back even when we are overwhelmed by difficulties and doubts. In the midst of an illness, treatment, or hospitalization that is a descent into the under-world, we may—like Psyche—find unexpected inner sources of courage, strength, and wisdom just when we need them.