Early in our marriage, my husband Jim began to (lovingly) refer to me as the Ice Queen. I didn’t seem to have the gift of tearing up or crying at appropriate times. Tear-jerker movies brought ire, sad stories brought jokes, and funerals brought stoicism. But to make up for all the lack of emotion, I would then cry at ridiculously superficial times: we ran out of Kleenex, the container of laundry detergent spilled, my sister looked at me funny. I blame my high school friends. I ran around with three guys and I knew I would never hear the end of it if they found me blubbering over the credits of a particularly touching movie, so I learned to swallow back the tears and try to distract myself from my emotions, often using humor. The downside is that all those unshed tears occasionally bubble up and surprise me unawares and at rather inopportune times.
Case in point: Jim had a repeat back surgery last week and I popped in to the pharmacy to get his medications at a location we very occasionally use, so I am less familiar with the process there. I was glad to see the store was empty and told the gal at the counter that I was there to collect Jim’s regular prescriptions and a couple of new ones, and that it would be two separate transactions. I slid the post-operative prescriptions across the counter along with a new insurance card. She waved me and the card off, saying that they would handle all of the new information at the next window. I sat down to play sudoku on my phone as the store filled up with six other patients. I was a little worried about leaving Jim home for so long. He was recovering rather well but I wanted to get home to be on hand to help him in and out of bed. And to keep the energetic 12-year-old from stirring up a hurricane of discord in the house. After waiting quite a while, I was finally summoned to the counter to pay. The woman helping me was rather short and impatient, but when I handed her the new card I had attempted to offer her co-worker earlier, she couldn’t mask her irritation.
“Did you tell her that this was separate insurance?” she demanded, referring to her co-worker.
“I tried to give her the card, but she said she didn’t need it yet,’” I stammered.
“Ugh. You’re going to have to step aside. I need to take care of these other people who have been waiting. Then I’m going to have to re-do all of this.”
I was surprised when tears immediately sprung to my eyes. “Can I have the meds I’ve already paid for?”
“No!” she said dismissively, “These people have been waiting!” The point being, of course, that the 30 minutes I had been there weren’t important.
I sat back down in my chair, feeling confused and embarrassed. Tears began running down my face in earnest and I was both shocked and mortified. Who cries at the pharmacy? Ridiculous. Also, who fails at the pharmacy? My husband is a pharmacist, for goodness’ sake! At least I was wearing a mask, which I hoped did something to hide my distress. And collect my tears since, of course, I had no tissues. Because I’m the Ice Queen. I don’t cry, right?
By the time I composed myself, she was ready for me. I apologized for causing her extra work, and she in turn responded with an exaggerated and patient “it’s fine” in a tone that is usually reserved for small children and unhinged adults. “It’s actually not fine,” I responded. She ignored that passive aggressive jab and spent the next several minutes explaining their workflow and processes “for next time” and then offered several conflicting options for filling the prescriptions because of a pre-authorization mishap: you can come in by 1:00 pm, or on Saturday, or through the first insurance, or not actually on Saturday because we are closed that day and not via that insurance because that won’t work. I looked at her blankly, “Can I just pay for them out of pocket?”
Meds in hand—both sets—I fled to my car. Sobbing. I had been in the pharmacy for nearly an hour and I felt ashamed and defeated. And I realized that perhaps I was not really crying over the pharmacy but worry and concern about Jim. Worry and concern I wasn’t even aware I was carrying because I was determined to be positive and upbeat at home, believing steadfastly that worry isn’t functional or useful. I knew for certain that if either of the two ladies working at the counter would have slowed down a fraction of a second, all of the irritation with me would have been avoided: either the first gal could have collected the information they needed, or the second gal could have been kinder. Impatient or kind, she had the same workload but it would have saved my equanimity by just…being nice. By just slowing down and assisting a client, she would have been a source of peace rather than a source of angst.
But--and this is the really important part: when have I been impatient and not been the source of peace that I should have been? Aren’t we all guilty of this? Just this past January, after my daughter’s ballet recital, I was frustrated that she had not immediately greeted her well-wishers who had come to support her. I was charging through the hallways of the performing arts center looking for her, and mistakenly opened an exterior door to the back of the building. Seeing my mistake, I quickly stepped back inside and closed the door behind me, noticing peripherally that there was a young girl with a tear-streaked face and a woman with her, talking on her cellphone: I assumed it was a bit of family drama not meant to be publicly observed. I found my daughter at the next doorway and propelled her toward our guests, her happy face confused by my single-minded focus on getting her to our family members. Walking past the exterior door, I heard knocking and opened it once again. The girl and lady had been locked out of the building, and hoping to be let back in. In my haste and self-concern, I had neglected to slow the heck down and pay attention to those around me. Instead of being a source of peace, I added to their anxiety by not really seeing them and locking them out a second time.
We are called to support each other in community, and that community extends beyond our little family- and friend-groups. Beyond our church and school and work communities. In the Book of Matthew, Chapter 25, Jesus’s Corporal Works of Mercy call us to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, shelter and give alms to the poor, visit the sick and imprisoned, and bury the dead. Surely these Corporal Works of Mercy extend to stopping and really seeing the people around us, really pausing for a minute to offer a kind word or listen to an anxious person. Surely, we have room in our lives for people. After all, what else really matters?
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