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Is It Safe?

 

Safety-PeopleToolsIn the 1976 movie, The Marathon Man, the hero “Babe” Levy, played by Dustin Hoffman, is restrained in a dental chair. The demented dentist, played by Laurence Olivier, is torturing him with a dental drill.  While Olivier is drilling into Hoffman’s teeth, he keeps repeating the question, “Is it safe?”

Is what safe?  Hoffman’s character doesn’t have a clue what the dentist is talking about and it looks like “bye-bye” teeth.

I’m going to turn this scene around and apply it to real life.  How many times does someone ask you, “Is it safe?” or “Are you safe for me?” when you don’t even know they are asking the question?

I’ll give you an example.

My yet-to-be second wife Susan and I were talking on the sofa in her living room on our second date.  I suggested that we stop talking for a while.  Within seconds Susan flew into my arms and we began to kiss.  When it looked as if it might become more serious Susan stopped, looked up at me, and said, “What religion are you?”

I told her, and asked what religion she was.  She told me and then asked if I was very religious.

“No.  Not very.  How about you?”

“Not very.”

We now knew we shared the same religion but were not severe about it.

Our physical relationship progressed.

The next time we were together I said, “So you wanted to know whether or not it was safe to let yourself go a little more with me.”

“No.”

“Then why did you ask about my religion after we started to kiss?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I was just curious.”

I think that Susan believed that. But I didn’t, because her timing was too odd.  I think that Susan was really asking, “Is it safe to get involved with you?” And religion was important to her.

Learning to find the deeper meaning in your partner’s words is challenging, but almost mandatory to develop trust and understanding. Have you or your partner ever expressed anger at a time, or in a way, that seemed inappropriate?

My friend Tom told me that a week before he was planning to propose to his long-term girlfriend Celia, he offered to give her his old cell phone because he had bought a new one.  Celia responded by email.

“How dare you offer me your used phone. I have the same kind and it works just fine. I don’t want your hand-me-downs.”

Tom was insulted, but instead of retaliating he wrote back to Celia, “Thanks for letting me know.  I’m glad you already have a cell phone that you like.  I only want the best for you.”

Two days later Celia admitted, “I was scared that you were getting too close, and if I accepted another gift from you I would be, somehow, obligated.  I’ve thought about it and want you to know I’m sorry.  I love you.”

When Tom did propose, not too long after, Celia’s answer was an enthusiastic, “Yes!”

Freud writes, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”  In other words, sometimes a cigar is exactly what it seems to be and does not represent anything else.  Likewise, behavior is often just what it appears to be.

But I suggest that you look for the times when a friend may really be asking, “Is it safe?”, when he or she appears to reject you.

Last week I visited with Dr. Carolyn, an eye surgeon.  She told me that a man she really liked had recently asked to spend time apart.

safety-2-peopletools“Is he afraid of you?”

She hesitated.

“I think so.  Yes.”

“Talk to him about it.  Maybe you can help him realize that you’re human too, and even though you’re successful he doesn’t have to be afraid of you.  You need him too.”

Carolyn smiled.  “I’ll give it a try.”

You should always listen to the music behind the words, and pay attention to both the lyrics and the song. Sometimes people are really just asking:  “Is it safe?”

Alan

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Long Ago and Far Away

Beach-PeopleToolsOne Sunday afternoon when I was a kid, my family drove to the beach. I had more energy than sense, swam out into the ocean, and was promptly slammed to the sand by a huge wave. I ran, crying, to my mother.

“Mommy.  Mommy.  I have something in my eye.  I have something in my eye!”

She examined my right eye.  “I don’t see anything.”

“It’s there.  It hurts, Mommy.  It hurts me.”

“Maybe it’s a grain of sand.”

She took me by my hand to a drug store, bought some eye wash, and showed me how to use it. Finally, with wash streaming down my cheek and a red right eye that had no white, she showed me a grain of sand.

“See, Alan.  Here’s the grain of sand that was in your eye.  It came out.  See?  It’s right here in my hand.”

“But it still hurts.  My eye still hurts.  It’s still in there Mommy.”

“Alan, it’s in my hand.  It might still hurt for a while because your eye remembers that the grain of sand was there.  But it won’t hurt for very long.”

It did hurt for very long.  For two hours.  I kept crying until the pain disappeared.

Switch to the present.

Two hours ago I received the following message from a close friend, with startling news about her daughter.

“Just wanted to let you know that we are in St. Joseph’s ER with Brita.  She has very high blood sugar and we think she may have diabetes.  Her sugar reading was at 211 this morning. I am devastated.  So sad that I can’t even describe.  —Rina.”

Ten years ago my daughter, then seventeen, had a blood sugar reading of 398 when she was diagnosed with Type I diabetes in the emergency room at Encino Hospital.

Rina’s immediate fear is of what this diagnosis might mean for her four-year-old daughter, Brita. She sees a life filled with needles, sleepless nights, and physical vulnerability. Today, that fear is immediate and real.  My daughter was almost an adult when she was diagnosed.  Even so, my wife and I spent many nights slipping into her room to make sure she was still alive and not in a coma.  She has Type 1 diabetes today, and has learned to live with her disease. So have we.  I in no way minimize the impact of Type 1 diabetes.

The pain from a grain of sand in my eye literally blotted out the sun many years ago, but time brings perspective.  Today it is a distant, not painful, memory, and I mostly remember my mother’s care and reassurance.

So, too, will the initial shock of Brita’s diagnosis fade, and the condition will become a part of her life.  As my wife told Rina, “Brita will never remember a time when she didn’t have to stick a needle into her finger to test her blood sugar.”  Until there is a cure, or a work around.

In situations like these, I suggest a perspective that I call “Long ago and far away.”  Pretend that you are on the moon, looking at yourself and your immediate problem from there.  Or pretend that you are on a distant star, a million light years away.  Your immediate condition will seem unimportant from there.

Of course, “long ago and far away” is much easier to write about than it is to put into practice—especially

when you’re right in the midst of a crisis. At this moment Rina’s catastrophe is up close and personal, and much larger than just a grain of sand in a tearful eye.  And this time it is her daughter, not mine, so I am not as close to it.

But even in the worst of times, struggling to maintain perspective can make all the difference.  The experience of Time-Is-Now-PeopleToolspain can give us a greater gratitude for joy.  The reality of illness can give us a better appreciation of normal health.  The prospect of death gives me a greater incentive to write today.That is why surgeons do not operate on close relatives.

We only have today.  Let’s make the most of it.

Alan

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I Want to Be Your Hero

 

Hero-PeopleToolsOh, my.  I woke up today with this idea in my head that I want to be your hero, and it won’t let go. Yesterday I was writing a blog entitled “Give Me a Compliment,” and part way through it became the question “Who Says ‘I Love You’ First?”  For me, writing is like living each day.  I usually know where I want to go, but discover my path as I proceed along the way.  There is no GPS.  I wander all over the map.  But it has always been an interesting journey.

Do I want you to reply to this blog and say, “Alan, you are my hero”?

That would be nice, especially if you give a reason or two, but that is not my primary focus.  I want to urge you to jot down the names of a few of your heroes and let them know by telling them today, in writing or out loud, “You are my hero.”

I shared this idea with a friend, who a few minutes ago emailed me to say, “In total frankness, you are my hero, maybe my super hero.  You have opened up a life and worlds unknown to me before.” My friend’s email touched me deeply and reaffirmed within me the importance of being valued.

And don’t we all need to have people believe in us?  Don’t we all need to feel valued?  And shouldn’t we tell each other exactly that, in a direct and unmistakable way?

Your hero could be a teacher or a parent, a friend or an acquaintance.  It could be Jason at the telephone company who spent hours recently solving a problem for my wife.

Is the word “hero” too strong?  I don’t think so.

Mrs. Agulia, who taught me Latin in High School, is my hero.  She taught me that I didn’t control the world, after I blurted out in class the “suggestion” that she had to raise my grade.  She said, “Alan, I don’t have to do anything.”

Mr. L. Day Hanks, my speech coach in high school, is my hero because he taught me how to express myself, and insisted that I speak to his home room about school events, after he discovered I had chickened out and failed to speak as scheduled in other home rooms.

Each of my nine children is my hero, because each is well-educated, has overcome obstacles, and is making his or her own way through a separate life.  I hope I have the courage to tell each of them exactly that in person when next we meet.

And it does take courage.  Daveen and I are treating one of our adult sons to dinner tonight for his birthday.  Like each of us, he has life challenges, but he is dealing with them in a thoughtful, energetic, and diligent way.

When I say at dinner tonight, “Craig, you are my hero,” he might smile, perhaps tentatively, and say, “Thanks, Dad.  What do you mean by that?”  And then I’ll have to explain.  I’ll improvise.  I hope I do it right.  (His response was better than I could have imagined.)

Perhaps I will call my daughter Jill today, and tell her she is my hero because she has raised three wonderful children under difficult circumstances and because, after working for others, she is now establishing her own law practice.

Perhaps I will email my son Steven who, after dropping out of college twice, now has six university degrees and is a professor in the USC medical school.

beatifulMInds-PeopleToolsWhen Alexis, who lives with us, is up and about, I may tell her that she is my hero because she has Lupus, is three months into chemotherapy, tired much of the time, yet perseveres in her job of helping immeasurably in youth philanthropy.

And to my friend who emailed to me this morning, you are my hero, only partly because you let me know that I am yours.

Please identify and tell at least one of your personal heroes today, right out loud or in writing, “You are my hero.”  And tell them specifically why.  Don’t be afraid.  They may respond badly.  Heroes may do that.  One of my all-time writing heroes is Ray Bradbury.  Once I approached him and said, “Mr. Bradbury, I have enjoyed your writing for more than twenty years.”  He harrumphed back, “Hmpf.  I’ve been writing for a lot longer than that.”  I guess he was having a bad day.  Heroes have bad days.  He’s still my hero.

And I want you to know that you are a hero.  You are reading this blog and trying to build a better life for yourself and for those you love.  For that reason alone you deserve my tribute.  You are my hero.

Alan

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