Empathy from Strangers

 

Yesterday I took Presley, my angel son’s labradoodle, for a walk. It was warm outside, so I decided to shave off some of the mileage and cut through the school field. Doing this also allowed for him to be set free to wander and explore. 

As we approached the other end of the field, we came upon a woman who was walking by herself. I complimented her hat—an Ecuadorian Panama one. From there, she and I struck up a conversation. Normally I don’t share information about losing Zane with strangers, but at one point she asked me how many children I have, and it always feels wrong to exclude Zane. So I told her. She welled up, which is always a sign that someone has empathy and isn’t afraid to show it. Our conversation quickly evolved into a lovely sharing of loss and cancer journeys and grief. 

She and I are going to walk together later this week. I think this may be the start of a new friendship. It truly is rare to find people who fit so harmoniously with my own belief system and who are willing to offer kindness and sympathy. Even rarer for someone to repeat the very things I have said to myself, such as the loss never leaves or a person cannot fully understand something until it’s happened to them. 

As hard as it is to continue moving forward without Zane, there is something comforting about connecting with others who understand. I mean, truly and deeply get it. There’s a lot of lip service paid to me when I mention the journeys I’ve been on with cancer, with the loss of child, or both. Primarily it comes from people I work with. It feels cold and isolating. And even though I know it’s because they never learned how to be grief literate, it still grates on me. But yesterday restored my belief in humanity. That there are those out there who grasp it…and care about someone outside of themselves. 

I’m looking forward to our next walk. To getting to know this neighbor better. 

I never once forget that Zane is the impetus for meeting these people. His death has propelled me to put myself out there, to keep traveling this human road until it’s my turn to move on to something different, something outside my human shell.