. . . Along the way I will
visit and thank some of the strangers who unexpectedly supported and
inspired me when I was sick. There was a mother hooked on the pain
medications she was prescribed during her cancer treatment, a man who
lost his brother in the North Tower on 9/11, a fit and healthy
twenty-something living in San Francisco who was searching for —
everything. I heard from doctors who assigned my columns as reading to
their medical students, and from students who were inspired by my
writing to become doctors. I even heard from a convict on death row in
Texas who wrote to me about the unexpected parallels between our lives.
“The threat of death lurks in both of our shadows,” he wrote to me in
careful cursive.
They don’t know it,
but many of these individuals became lifelines — bright, shining lights
during the darkest days. These strangers were more thoughtful, honest
and vulnerable with me and each other than a lot of the people I know in
the real world. Their empathy was an affirmation of humanity. Their
stories of resilience gave me strength in my moments of weakness. They
taught me about the kind of person I wanted to become. (First and
foremost, one who reaches out in times of hardship.) Most importantly,
they showed me that we all have interruptions at some point, whether
it’s illness, the death of a loved one, unemployment or a bad break up.
Hardship can make us feel isolated. As much of an introvert as I am, that doesn't mean I revel in feeling like a freak. The idea that someone else weathered the storm and emerged soggy, wind-burned, and triumphant is galvanizing.
Sharing our stories can have insane ripple effects of change. Benjamin Hertwig's "In the Waiting Room of Estranged Spouses" relates his saga of of chaos, pain, and eventual redemption after learning of his wife's infidelity. A commenter identified as "Sylvia" posted the below, which was printed with the letters:
This letter cut me deeply. I was wowed how one man's story of overcoming pain and forging a way to peace quenched another's fury and anguish.
Humans need to connect, and true connection only occurs through vulnerability. (Brené! Brené! Brené!) In that connection, we can all heal.
I'm so angry. Anger has become my default state. And I feel justified, because it's clear my ex did a myriad of hurtful, egotistical things to me. But I'm still in pain, a numbing, defeating pain that I can't see my way out of. . . Except now.
The grace of your article was soothing like an ointment or a salve on a dry, unyielding scar. The readers' supportive, thankful comments, a chorus of love and humanity. And I woke up to the truth that my anger and self-righteousness are poison. I need and yearn to forgive; so that I can purge the mind-numbing pain, and let in joy and hope.
I thank you, all of you, most gratefully and humbly.