For Briggs and Gretchen
(Or, the Cost of Paying Attention)
Yesterday, I was at the hospital for my son, instead of me.
I have said this before because it is true. It is always harder to be the parent.
I will take being the patient every time. Every single time.
While his dad and I waited for his day surgery to wrap up, an elderly woman came up to the front desk. She was using a walker, moving slowly and carefully, and she looked unsteady on her feet.
“Oh, you’re at the wrong place,” the woman behind the desk told her. “The primary care office moved two buildings down. Just go outside, to the back of the parking lot, take a left, and it’s two buildings down on your left. It’s walkable.”
The older woman hesitated. “But I use assistance to get around. How far is it? I can’t walk very far.”
The woman at the desk shrugged. “While you figure out how to get there, I’ll give them a call to let them know you’re in the wrong office.” Then she walked away.
My ex-husband and I looked at each other. He was already reaching for his keys.
I walked over. “Ma’am, can I drive you? I know exactly where it is.”
Her name was Gretchen. She was kind and sharp and told me she had eight screws in her spine. The building was nearly a quarter mile away. The rain had picked up.
On the drive, she asked if I worked in the service industry.
“No,” I said. “I used to help run forty child care centers. Now I’m a patient who spends a lot of time in hospitals.”
She nodded. Then told me she used to be a psychological social worker.
I smiled. “So, you get it.”
She did.
She thanked me again and again, her voice soft and full of relief. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t kind, just a human who noticed, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Instead, I said, “It’s decency. You couldn’t have walked there, and I’m guessing you had insurance arrange transportation. Now you’re worried they won’t find you.”
She nodded again. I promised to explain to the receptionist and make sure someone called for her ride when her appointment ended. I did. Then I made it back in time to greet my son waking up from surgery, which he doesn’t remember anyway.
I know this story could sound like a humble brag. That almost kept me from sharing it. But it isn’t about being kind. It’s about how tired we have all become. Too tired, at critical times, to be genuinely kind.
Compassion fatigue is real. Not just in health care or education or social work, but in neighborhoods and marriages and friendships. Instead of judging people who have run out of it, maybe the rest of us can notice and quietly step in.
It is not a character flaw. It is a community letdown.
The woman behind that desk probably wasn’t heartless. She was likely afraid. Afraid of breaking a rule or losing her job or just getting it wrong.
That is the thing about systems built on fear. They make decency feel dangerous.
We live in a country where almost everything feels for sale, even generosity. But the cost of community is not money. It is attention.
Pay attention to yourself and to others. Pay attention to the small moments where you can help. Sometimes even when you won’t have the energy or tools to fix your own problems, you could miraculously, have exactly what’s needed to fix someone else’s.
Denying a ride to someone who needs one, when you have a car, is wrong.
Denying food to someone hungry, when there is enough to go around, is wrong.
Denying compassion to someone suffering, when you have it to give, is wrong.
Easing suffering is a choice. The more of us who make that choice quietly and without applause, the stronger and safer we all become.
I often struggle to ease my own pain. But when I see someone else’s, and I know exactly how to help, I hope I always will.
