A Strange Kindness

I once dated a man who called me “counter-dependent,” meaning that I take independence to an unhealthy extreme. He was probably right, and this kind of my-by-self two-year-old attitude is not easy to pull off when you have a chronic illness. A couple of years ago I had an experience that pointed to some of what might drive this difficulty with receiving assistance.

In the second year of what was supposed to be a three year sabbatical (more on that in later posts- let's just say it falls under the Be Careful What You Wish For category) I went to Mexico, to a natural hot spring retreat in the mountains where I had been before. My health was not strong, but this is a place where people often go to recuperate from surgery, cancer and other illnesses, so the proprietors are diligent about water quality and food preparation. I say this because it’s not generally a great idea for someone with a compromised immune system to go where they cannot count on these things, but I had good cause to feel reasonably safe.

On my return trip, riding the bus from the airport terminal to the plane I started to feel a little dizzy. By the time the plane took off I was having chills, sweats, a stomach ache and vertigo. For those of you who have never picked up a nasty bacteria, (E.Coli, C.Difficile, Salmonella etc.) it’s like the flu times one thousand. Based on previous experience I knew that if I went to the airplane restroom I was going to spend the whole trip there, and risk passing out in a less than optimal position. So, I decided to stay put and try to get through it.

It got worse. A lot worse. The woman next to me appeared to be with a group of Asian travellers who had boarded together and occasionally called out to each other in a language I didn’t recognize. She appeared to be in her sixties, with a short sturdy body, dark hair and a broad face. At one point, as a chill shook me like a leaf in the wind, she got up, opened the overhead bin and gestured to me, offering her winter coat. I shook my head no. I was nauseous, and didn't want to worry about someone else's coat if things got. . . .well, more out of my control.

Some time later, my hands started to go numb. Alarmed, I hit the call button. The steward, looking annoyed, asked if there was a doctor on board and a young Danish physician took my pulse. He decided I wasn’t having a stroke, and we did not need to put the plane down prematurely. I apologized to the stewards who were looking and sounding increasingly irritated as they made me fill out a form protecting the airline from liability. Marginally convinced that I was not dying, I held on, alternating between hot flashes and violent chills.

Leaning my head against the window I gave up trying to stop the shaking. And then I felt something warm. I looked up to see the small woman from the seat next to me, wrapping her soft, red, wool coat around me. I tried to protest but in the universal language of comfort she just said, “Shhhh, shhhh. . . .” as she tucked the coat around me, and gently but firmly stroked my arms.

And in that moment, I was undone. I could take the indifference and hostility of the airline stewards. I could be stoic even though I was in pain and alone. But this kindness from a stranger, this giving of comfort, contact and her own garment, made my throat constrict and my eyes fill with tears. She sat back down next to me and patted my knee, looking concerned.

When we landed, still shaking, I handed the coat back to her, said “Thank you,” and motioned for the woman to disembark with her group, not wanting to even try moving before everyone else was off the plane. I passed out and was still there when the folks who gather the garbage between flights found me.

I keep thinking about how much this woman’s kindness touched me and how it offered me an insight into why it is sometimes so hard to receive. If we are hanging on by our finger nails, steeling ourselves against our own or the world's suffering, kindness can feel dangerous. It opens our hearts to our own or another’s pain. This woman's compassion showed me how infrequently I expect or even see the assistance that may be offered to me when somewhere deep inside I am caught in the belief that I must be “strong” to get through. It reminded me that compassion does not necessitate heroic acts or grand gestures, but a willingness to be with another and offer what we can. And it strengthened my conviction that small acts of kindness can have a ripple effect of blessings we cannot even imagine.