“miss lisa, would you like brown sugar or white,” she’d always ask, as she put a large carafe of coffee — the church bazaar kind, stainless steel, with a little black plastic flip nozzle on the bottom — and a white ceramic teapot on another tray.
upstairs, i’d arrange the different sized chairs in a circle — black office chairs, wooden dinner table chairs, vintage chrome chairs with flowered upholstery seats — careful to put them near the large yellow velvet couch in case someone chose not to be with the crowd.
somewhere between the questions and the tears, there would be stories
as people arrived, they’d grab a muffin and a chair, and chat. many of them knew each other already, having met at other meetings or conferences — some had even attended each other’s weddings and birthday celebrations. but there was always a first-timer. someone still reeling from their diagnosis, or maybe waiting for test results. a few times, a family member or a friend of a patient who was too sick to come would join us.
and then the magic would begin. somewhere between the questions and the tears, there would be stories. really great, inspirational, compelling stories that, as the one listening, made you feel bitter and distraught about how unforgiving life can be, and at the same time, in awe of our ability to cope, hope and keep going.
the tellers of the story can feel moved as well.
after all, we know how good it feels to see someone else nod in agreement and understanding as we share our most fearful worry. that wonderful back-and-forth of you-tell, i-tell — the exchange of similar experiences — can erase the sense of isolation, otherness and loss that can come with a traumatic experience like living with a scary disease.
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