If any of you know me personally, you’ve probably never heard me say the word “beautiful”. I may type it into an email or two, but I’ve practically never said it out loud. The same goes for “pretty” and “love”. Something tells me that it is because of certain expectations that were placed on me from a young age, and because of the male role models I had in my extended family.
We never saw any affection between a husband and wife. It was never ok for a boy to cry. There was an image to maintain, not just for those outside the family, but also within it. I had always known that we all lead double lives, hiding our personalities from each other. We made excuses for it, claiming to the world and each other that we understood the value of family, and that we were there to support one another. It isn’t that we didn’t care for each other, or that there were no hugs and smiles, but that we were very selective. The reality was that we were supporting a fictional ideal. As soon as anyone stepped out of the defined roles, all Hell broke loose.
I notice aspects of this in many families, especially when two families meet for a special occasion. The usual “my son plays the piano”; “Oh my daughter is the top of her class in Maths”; “Here, stand back to back, kids, I want to see who’s taller” (no, I’m not kidding). If ever there was a time when someone failed, or a marriage was headed for divorce, or a child had experimented with drugs, or any of the other normal hiccups that occur in real life, they were promptly hidden/ignored/lied about. It was shameful to admit that we could have a problem.
This all turns children into particularly cold adults.
I hate to do this because it seems so staged, like the man in a wheelchair who is touched and then can suddenly walk, but I promise you that this is the truth: Things have started to change for me. I’m not completely “cured” but I can see that I’m headed in a better direction.
I only fully realised the change last week after speaking to a friend in who is in medical school. He’s in the clinical phase of his training, and as such has to face the reality of life: it has to end. He is there with people at their most vulnerable time, when all around them seems to be falling apart. They are going to die. This really takes a toll on the doctors who have to face the same reality day in and day out. It is no surprise that doctors have the highest rate of suicide, depression, drug abuse and marital failure of any profession. Even though my friend was laughing and joking as always, I could hear that he had changed. I called him once every couple of days, and left the odd email, and he finally opened up to me. He knew that he had something of real value to offer to his patients, and that his was a position of privilege, but that didn’t stop him from being affected, nor should it.
He admitted that he hadn’t told anyone else - family or friends - about how he was feeling. I think this was the reason I kept calling him despite his apparent happiness. On some level I’d recognised the subtle signs of the same act that I’d been playing for years.
This brings me back to the word “love”. I think the only reason I’m now able to be openly emotional, to genuinely feel sorrow when I watch an advertisement about breast cancer, to experience real joy, is that in my own way I have started to understand that I will die. Please understand, this is not meant to be a bad thing at all, and I am far from being petrified about walking out of the house. It is more similar (though perhaps not in scale) to the change that we see in people with a terminal illness. Somehow, once they’ve accepted their mortality, these individuals turn their lives around and “live each day as if it was their last”. The reality is that we all face the same fate as the terminally ill patient.
This understanding has undone the years of acting to fill a false role. I no longer want to pretend. My time is much too valuable for that.
February 24th, 2006 at 1:13 pm
Living up to expectations – that’s a painfully self destructive reality. Islam brings such clarity and defintion to one’s life that man’s limited judgements become insignificant.
Allah (swt) has charcterised every relationship, situation and action such that there’s a method for coping with every hurdle. This may sound unrealistic and far too idealistic but in my opinion, the choices are only two - live life according to the law of man, who’s only pupose is self gratification or abide by divine law, where not only man’s reality has been accounted for, but also the realities beyond, which we have no perception of.
I’ve had the privilege of working with the elderly, the terminally ill, the severely disabled, those in poverty… and I’m humbled more and more every time.
I was in a day centre for the elderly with dementia. The group were made to take part in music therapy and as the woman next to me aimlessly tapped her tambourine, she muttered the same phrase over and over ‘What’s the point of me being here? I’m just waiting to die.’ As she kept repeating the words in time to the beat, the poignancy of the refrain became painful.
Contrast this to the view of a Muslim brother in a respite home. He was in his twenties and severely disabled with multiple disorders and limited communication. A care worker asked him how on earth he copes with life and using his communication aid he managed to say ‘It’s Allah (swt)’s will and my goal is Jannah.’ SubhanAllah! May he be granted that destiny.
So viewed in the context of Allah (swt)’s system, life can never become too much.
The reality is that we all face the same fate as the terminally ill patient.
Except for the Muslims, there’s a difference – the ‘terminally’ can be removed. We’ve been blessed with the cure, as has the whole of mankind.