IF THE MOUNTAIN WON’T COME… [Sun, 9-22-24]

 

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of an Old Man—IF THE MOUNTAIN WON’T COME…

[Sun, 9-22-24]

 

She had come from a long way. Forty miles just to come to a support group? But she didn’t want her parents to know.

She was seventeen. Both her parents had cancer. They would not talk to her about it. Even admit to her that they were sick.

So, she had told them she was going to a movie, and she drove all that way, to a cancer support group she’d heard about, at a different cancer center from the one where her parents went. A different city. Because she needed support. We were a long drive away, but we were a support group.

She told a bunch of strangers how frightened and lonely she felt. That took admirable courage. There were a lot of tears. Then she waited. Waited for support. Waited for us to tell her what to do.

Everyone looked at me.

Any one of those folks was as able as I was, to give her support. But I was the cancer “hitman.” When some patient wasn’t doing the right thing—wouldn’t come to chemo, wouldn’t stop smoking, wouldn’t come to group, wouldn’t take the “right” attitude--someone would put out a “contract” on them. A nurse. A social worker. The receptionist. Even a doctor. They’d give a “contract” to the hitman.

I knew that this silent contract, put on the girl by the whole group, was a one-off. I knew she couldn’t come every week. This would probably be her only time there. Our only chance to help. Our only chance to say the right words. Our only chance to listen for the right words instead of trying to say the right words.

I said, “Andrea, we’d like to hear about you. You’ve told us of your parents. Tell us about yourself.”

Andrea was tall and willowy. Personable. Charismatic even, in an awkward way. Mature for her age. But almost everyone likes an invitation to talk about themselves, especially teen girls. So she did.

Her grades were dropping. She couldn’t concentrate. She was moody and distracted. The volleyball coach was mad at her. Her friends didn’t want to hang with her. She was afraid to talk to teachers, for fear it would upset her parents. She was afraid she was going to be left alone… and her parents wouldn’t talk to her. [That unwillingness to talk was the reason for about half of my hitman contracts.]

When she finished, everyone applauded. Andrea looked shocked. Why?

“Because you talked,” I said. “You did it well. You proved to us that you can do it. If your parents won’t talk to you, you have to talk to them. Don’t try to get them to talk. Just tell them about yourself, the way you did to us.”

Did it work? I don’t know. She did not return.

I do know, though, that when it comes to death, talking is almost always better than silence. I also know that, almost always, it works better if you start the talking not by asking but by sharing.

John Robert McFarland

[The whole sentence is: If the mountain won’t come to Mohammad, Mohammad must go to the mountain.]