Larry had a very bad day last week. Fishing in Montana with three of his friends, standing by the river in his waders, tying his boots, and his hip went out. Wouldn't self correct, as it usually does, so there he is. His friends and the guide have to leverage him into the back of the guide's SUV for the ride to Ennis, a back-road hour away. Though I haven't experienced it, let's stipulate that a joint out of its socket is pretty excruciating. And his hip was dislocated for six hours, not to be righted until his arrival in Bozeman, x-rays, a spinal.
So, he says, he swore. A lot. Didn't cry, though this is the man who weeps an Disney movies, weddings, sunsets. I wasn't there, but I'm familiar with his vocabulary which is solid, mid-western Lutheran in origin. Thus nothing particularly shocking. But he felt he had to apologize to the nurses who scissored off his trousers, his favorite flannel fishing shirt, his really good t-shirt, who took his blood pressure and vitals, administered the i-v with its god-sent morphine.
One such angel told him that they hear it all, that swearing is a form of pain relief, and no apology was necessary.
Meanwhile, I was having a bad day of my own, involving the pain of watching two people I love struggle, and worrying about Larry, and the insensitivity of the people at Citi Bank who wanted me to confirm my identity before allowing me access to my AT&T credit card info. Okay, not quite up there with a dislocated hip, but enough, it seems.
On my way to my training session with Aaron that morning, sweet, empathetic man, I felt the tears coming. Deep breath. Get over yourself. Stop it! And yet, I cried. Embarrassing myself and, I'm sure, Aaron as well.
And so I've been thinking about the difference between swearing and crying. Why one and not the other? They both help. I can keep from swearing, but not from crying. (Well, how do I know? I've never dislocated a hip.) Is this a gender thing?
Talking to my sisters during our Sunday conversation, I asked them. "You're lucky," Martha said. "I can't cry at all." Wow. That's almost unbelievable, but believe her I do. She's had enough to cry about (haven't we all?). Mary told a story of the time in Berlin when she was on the U-Bahn with Paul, as a child, perhaps with Neils, also. There were other Americans on the car, and Paul, who was an extraordinarily handsome boy, but who is profoundly autistic, did something that the other women considered funny. Mary said that she, too, laughed for a moment, but then was sobbing and couldn't stop. That breaks my heart.
"Do you still cry sometimes?" I ask her. "Not often," she says. Well, it's hard to imagine a reason that reaches the level of that moment on a German train. Certainly not the events of my Thursday morning!
Maybe I am lucky? I swear, too, that's for sure, but not when in pain. Mostly in annoyance when I break an egg into the refrigerator and have to clean it up, or can't make my computer behave, or have to wait for a technician on the Citi Bank phone line for 10 minutes because they need me to prove I'm me. My mother's maiden name, should you ever need to know, starts with H.
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