As I stepped into the foyer, my eyes immediately went to an absolutely beautiful, large floral arrangement wrapped in cellophane and waiting beside the inner, locked door. "Oh!" I thought, "Cindy is going to love that!"
"Cindy" was the neighbor who lived across the hall from me, and other than the usual tidbits that city apartment dwellers pick up from sheer proximity to one another I didn't know her well. She was pretty and smart, with an engaging smile, warm eyes, and an easy conversational style that drew people to her. Cindy worked in sales and seemed born for the job; I imagine she was very successful. Although there was a time or two when I saw her with the puffy eyes and red nose that go with a respiratory infection and one instance where she clearly was distraught after a row with a beau, Cindy characteristically was smiling and perfectly decked out for whatever an occasion required, with her long, dark hair falling in easy waves down her back, sometimes corralled with a scarf or pushed aside with sunglasses atop her head. We shared a housekeeper and a hairdresser, and I found my new favorite radio station after noticing the music coming through her apartment door, but although our lives intercepted in the hallway from time to time they didn't otherwise overlap and we weren't close friends.
Nonetheless, I noticed that Cindy usually had a boyfriend, and she and her man always seemed rather like Barbie and Ken. I'd see them heading off to play tennis or go skiing, or notice him ascending the stairs behind her, arms laden with groceries and other miscellany from their shopping excursions, smiling and obviously happy to be of help. The floral arrangement I saw on that Valentine's Day seemed the perfect gesture for Cindy's boyfriend to have made, and I knew she'd be delighted.
I, on the other hand, was dating "William." William always was "William," never "Bill" or "Will," and certainly not "Billy" or "Willy." Named after his father, he hadn't picked up a nickname to help distinguish one from the other, such as Chip or Bud; no, it always was just "William." William was handsome and smart, educated at the best schools and successful in his profession. He was a gym jock as well as a studious dancer who knew all the steps and moves, even if he sometimes seemed to be marching through them more than dancing. My girlfriends envied me: William was a catch: An attractive, accomplished man, trustworthy and reliable, and one who not only would and could dance but also was a strong lead. What more could a lady want?
William was somewhat socially awkward, though, and a bit shy. It could be hard to draw him out, and no one ever would accuse him of being romantic. In fact, after awhile I chuckled knowing that every holiday and special occasion would be met the same way: I would receive a perfectly nondescript card that equally well could have been sent to his mother, boss, or child's teacher, with a generic message of good wishes for the day and William's inscription, "Happy [occasion] from William." "Happy birthday from William." "Happy holidays from William." He might take me out for a lovely evening and would spare no expense, but tangible mementos weren't William's style and the say-nothing cards "from William" made me smile but didn't touch my heart. That just was William and how he rolled.
So on that long ago Valentine's Day I peeked through the slots of the mailboxes on my way by, noted that the mail had not yet arrived, and made my way to my apartment intending to return later to look for mail again, anticipating the obligatory Valentine greeting "from William." Once home I set about putting things away, changing clothes, and perhaps making a snack or lunch before settling down to make phone calls and do paperwork, and thought idly of the lovely surprise downstairs that awaited Cindy. I couldn't help but think that it would be wonderful to have a beau who would send me something like that, but reliable, dependable, rock-solid, hardworking William just didn't do things that way. A woman could do a lot worse than William, I knew, and I needed to appreciate him as he was.
Still, the thoughts lingered and niggled: "I wish . . . I wonder if any amount of hinting or begging would make any difference . . . If only . . . Hmmm. It wouldn't hurt to look. It's a long shot, terribly long, but I could look, and promise myself not to be disappointed to see Cindy's name on the card." After all, the simple elegance of that floral arrangement simply screamed "Cindy," and sending it was exactly what I would have expected her boyfriend to do.
So, having steeled myself against likely disappointment, I retraced my steps and went back downstairs. The flowers were even prettier than I remembered . . . and there on the card was . . . my name! I picked them up and floated upstairs, and even had the pleasure of encountering the man who lived above me and observing that he was duly impressed. Once back in my apartment I removed the cellophane and discovered that in addition to the flowers the arrangement included two mugs adorned with red hearts and assorted small packages of coffees and chocolates. William knew me better than I'd realized, and perhaps better than I knew him. As though to ensure that I kept at least one foot firmly on the ground, however, the card bore the characteristic message, "Happy Valentine's Day from William." I had to laugh!
Last week, the very day after I wrote about "Uncle" in this space, the next mug up in my rotation was the one remaining heart-covered one from that long ago gift from William:
As I looked at it, sitting there in my kitchen with the morning's joe ready to help jumpstart my day, I thought of all the goodness that people overlook simply because they don't expect to find or receive it. Had I not happened to go back downstairs that day, albeit fully expecting to be disappointed, I would have missed William's gift. It's a sad state of being when one walks right by a much longed-for blessing without so much as bothering to glance at the card, and receives it only when the universe clunks one over the head. I've needed many a clunk of that sort over the years!
But beyond being head-shaking sad, expectations and assumptions can be actual health hazards. The assumption that physical and mental frailty are normal aspects of aging, for example, and therefore nothing that should be evaluated and treated, or the expectation that crushing chest pain will subside spontaneously if one just doesn't give into it, robs countless people of both quality and length of life. And some expectations and assumptions can drain the vitality and joy from literally decades of living.
Consider "Viola," a ninety year-old patient whom I first met while she was in the hospital. Her friend "Warren" was at her bedside, and we talked together about her going home and the home healthcare she would receive once there. Viola has a quick wit and sharp tongue, and I liked her at once. Thinking it unfair to use my position to take all the "good" patients before they even left the hospital, I sent her referral to the home care office with no recommendations about staffing but hoping she might come to me. Unfortunately, once home she was seen only once by a weekend nurse before she landed back in the hospital with cardiac complications. I saw her frequently during her second stay, finding Warren with her every time and thinking more and more that I'd like to have her as my patient when she finally returned home.
It happened. The home care scheduler sent a list of patients who needed Case Managers, and Viola's name was on it. So I jumped on it, and as soon as she went back home Viola was mine.
My impressions from those hospital visits weren't wrong. Viola is quick and witty. She reads voraciously, loves crossword puzzles and classical music, and has a condo full of treasured collectibles. We disagree about politics and so stay away from that topic, but she regales me with stories and we "solve the world's problems" together while I unpack and later repack my gear. However, I have seen Viola either in the hospital or at home for two months now, and don't believe there has been a single encounter when she has not mentioned being an orphan.
Ninety years ago, almost a century, Viola was dropped off at an orphanage when she was days old and stayed there until she ran away as an older child, not happy with the nuns' insistence that she eventually enter the convent herself. "I've been on my own ever since," she says.
Ninety years later, every time I see her she speaks of being an orphan. From time to time she remarks, "Nobody loves me" and "Nobody wants me," half joking, but clearly not entirely so. "I'm all alone," she'll say matter-of-factly. "I have no one." Yet Warren, with whom she worked for decades before they both retired, drives over an hour one way to visit her and to take her back to his home to visit, later driving her home again and then driving still more to go back home himself. Warren calls every day "to be sure I'm ok." One of Viola's old doctors, now long since retired, takes her to lunch, and she's busy looking for a book for him now. Until recent health issues slowed her down she was active in the community, and recently intervened with the alderman, who heard and respected her enough to resolve successfully a dispute within the condo association.
One day last month I went to see Viola for a scheduled appointment, but the front desk attendant could not reach her to announce me. I waited in case Viola was in the bathroom or down the hall throwing trash in the chute, but repeated calls yielded no response. We were worried. A building engineer joined us and looked concerned when he learned what was happening; he went to procure a master key from the building office. As other residents passed through the lobby the desk attendant asked if anyone had seen Viola lately. Everyone seemed to know her, but none had seen her in the previous two or three days and each one paused to express concern, with clearly apparent and genuine positive regard. The engineer returned and escorted me to Viola's unit, where there was no response to the door and where it turned out the master key did not fit one lock that Viola evidently had changed. We returned to the lobby, and the desk attendant agreed to ask Viola to call me if she appeared, while I would search the hospital records later for Warren's phone number. I considered calling the fire department to break down Viola's door, a decision that for me often is based on a "gut feeling," but opted against it, which turned out to be a good choice.
Viola is fine. Thinking she could go and return quickly, she had ducked out to pick up medicine from a pharmacy around the corner, expecting to be back in time for my visit. I missed her by minutes.
But I now know that there is a big high-rise condo building full of people who like and care about Viola, as well as loyal Warren, the doctor who takes her to lunch and for whom she seeks books, and who knows who all else, as well as this nurse who singled out Viola early on as someone who would be a special patient. But Viola's self-talk is "I'm all alone," "No one care about me," and "I'm an orphan." After ninety years of such talk, I don't suppose that is likely to change. Yet just as I once assumed that a lovely floral arrangement was for Cindy and walked right by it without even checking the card, so Viola has convinced herself that she is alone and abandoned to the point that she doesn't "see" even Warren, calling every day and driving hours to visit her, much less her neighbors and others whose lives she has touched. Viola literally lives in the middle of a caring community, but because of her assumptions and expectations she doesn't recognize it.
In the "new age," self-help world there's a adage that says, "If you can believe it you can achieve it." I don't know that simple belief always is an assurance of a desired outcome; surely the action taken to effect the achievement is critical. I do know, though, that it's almost impossible to receive and achieve that which one cannot even imagine.
We caution children to be careful, to look out for danger, and to take safety precautions. "Stop, look, and listen," we tell them, "You can't count on drivers to see you and stop." "Don't talk to strangers." "Lock the doors." "Know how to use a fire extinguisher and to call 911." "Don't go out alone at night, and don't go into 'bad neighborhoods' at all." "Don't run on the pool deck or with scissors in your hand." "Be careful; you could be hurt."
What would happen if we invested the same level of energy in teaching them to pay attention to the goodness around them? When he was a boy Fred Rogers' mother used to tell him to "Look for the helpers" when news stories frightened him. The helpers always would be there, she said. Suppose we also encouraged children to look for the people who are happy and smiling, to spend time with those who leave them feeling good, and to expect generosity and happy surprises and to delight in extending those as well. Imagine explaining that sirens in the distance are good signs, because they mean someone who needs help is receiving it and that others have the opportunity to be helpers. What if we taught them to see the value in every type of work that any person does and to appreciate it? Suppose we instilled a sense of wonder and endless possibility, instead of just "stranger danger" and defensiveness. Certainly children need to be careful and safe, however, one-sided teaching that focuses on darkness risks leaving young people oblivious to the light.
This is a season of imagining and story-telling, whether around the Christmas tree, menorah, ceremonial solstice fire, days of Kwaanza, or something else. Thinking of Viola, and of my own failure once upon a time even to consider that a gift might be for me, I wish for all of us times of thoughtful storytelling and conscious listening, both in the immediate weeks ahead and in the new year that follows. May we pause mind and body alike, to listen to the stories around us, others' and our own, and dare to correct errors heretofore unnoticed, so that as we move into the new year we carry with us light and wonder and a sense of the possible, free at last from the binding of unrecognized but powerful
Assumptions and Expectations.
