Lessons in Humanity
March 11, 2013
By: Tracey-Ann Curtis
I used to work in a cemetery. Yeah, it’s a conversation killer, no pun intended. My answer to “So, what do you do?” inevitably elicited raised eyebrows, frowns, or a fidgety uncomfortable silence from the inquirer. The comment “How depressing!” was usually not far behind. It was, in fact, humbling, and a privilege to help people who were experiencing human emotion in its most exquisite form. Anger. Grief. Loss. Love.
I was in sales, but there was much support and handholding – sometimes literally – in the every day. I admit it was uncomfortable sometimes being faced with so much naked emotion. It was uncomfortable for me to bear witness to it, uncomfortable, too, for my clients exposing their vulnerabilities to me. I learned to be adaptable, to be for my clients who they needed me to be in that moment: all business, or counsellor, or a hybrid of the two. I learned, too, not to judge the daughter who made seemingly inappropriate jokes about the holes in her father’s head. Or the man who yelled at me in my office because his father worked hard his whole life and the cemetery plot was so expensive. Or the elderly gentleman who just wept and clung to me when I said, “I am so sorry about your wife.” Each of us finds our own way to bear the previously unimaginable.
It was an unusual yet appropriate prologue for my current position as the Regional Manager for Lymphoma Foundation Canada. I have been in the position for five months and the organization I represent is all about support too. Cancer fighters and their loved ones have already privileged me with their stories; have left me in awe of their courage, their resilience, and the beaming smiles on their faces. Your stories are humbling too; I am left feeling vaguely apologetic to be the outsider looking in and not exactly a part of the intimacy that is shared between you all, the indefatigable bond of cancer kinship that unites you.
Someone shared some simple yet profound advice with me: you have two ears and one mouth, use them in that proportion. It has – and will – serve me particularly well in my role. I am listening to you and hearing you. You want a voice, a voice not to be drowned out in the voices of the generation before you. You are craving knowledge, about your cancer, about your options. You want to know how to feel better, not just physically, but how to nurture your relationships, your mind, your heart. Your caregivers and lovers and spouses are anguished too, they want a safe place to express their unspeakable fear and frustration, and not feel badly about themselves for it, they want to know how to be there for you. You want to be the youth you deserve to be: vibrant, hopeful, desirable and desiring, joyful and carefree.
May I fight by your side? It would be my honour.
