BRUISING

There’s a simple hope concept I’ve been talking about for ten years or more, the idea of bruising. It’s a paradigm that takes your friends and relatives by surprise. Something happens to you, and your reaction is—well—an over reaction, totally out of proportion with what they would expect from you. Suppose, let us say, that you bump your shin on the open dishwasher door, momentarily uncomfortable maybe, but certainly not life-threatening. And yet—inexplicably—you cry out in anguish, leaping in the air, cursing on the descent. Nobody but you can understand your reaction. Nobody but you knows how much it hurts. Nobody but you knows that, just yesterday, you barked that same shin in the same place. Now it hurts much more today because it is already bruised.
When I first wrote about bruising, I understood it best in terms of the dishwasher. That analogy helped me make the personal link to the bruised people who brought me their sorrow. It helped me encourage them to take it slow, give themselves time to get back into the mainstream, protect themselves and not be afraid to rest for a while.
Today I understand the bruising concept more deeply. David and I are moving slowly in the wake of Linda’s death, operating at arm’s length, taking on the responsibilities of the encroaching world with uncharacteristic ambivalence.
It is not yet three years since we began the journey through illness to death with my mother. That journey was followed closely by a journey with David’s father. Then, at Valentine’s, we started down the road with Linda. And we find, to our surprise, that we are fragile. A kind word brings the threat of unexpected tears. An evening out exhausts us. I do believe we are bruised.
“Bruising is a natural phenomenon,” I would say in a hope presentation. “Bruises do heal. It takes time, and possibly ice to make them disappear. Most of all, it takes protection. You can’t keep hitting on them.”
No doubt about it, it’s a bit of a worry, doing things when you are bruised. Today I am looking ahead. On May 23 I will have given 13 hope presentations to a variety of audiences during the month that began April 23. One down, twelve to go. And I wonder how I can be counted on to inspire hope while I’m in this state of recovery, experiencing joy in moderation, not sick enough to cancel out.
Hope ethicist Christy Simpson once coached me in a time of discouragement before a public lecture. “Do the hope stuff you do with others,” she said confidently. “You’ll find it will work on you.”
And it did work on me, so she’d probably give the same advice again if I called up to ask for it. For now I will say, “Thank heavens I’m an expert in hope. I’d hate to be facing twelve presentations on despair!”