Alleviating Distress

As we enter the post-holiday winter, especially in this omicron surge, I am spending a lot of time telling myself that winter 2022 will be very different from winter 2021. Last winter, we were living 10 hours driving distance away from family, and flying was off the table. I had a toddler and an infant, and I decided to quit my pelvic floor PT job 2 months after returning from maternity leave due to pandemic related child care issues. Because my husband is a hospital based pediatrician and has seen too many horror stories unfold in front of his eyes, we adhered strictly to covid guidelines about social distancing and avoiding indoor spaces with poor ventilation. Our amazing neighbors agreed to be in a pandemic pod with us, and we relied on each other for social and emotional support as adults, in addition to relying on their child to be our kids’ only pandemic friend. We had 30+ inches of snow and played outside every day even though we had an entire month of below-freezing temperatures. NOT a winter I would like to repeat. We were very privileged to make the decisions we made, and we were thankful to stay safe and healthy, but I’m not sure anyone had a great time.

Today, I want to talk about Glen, our mailman at the time. Besides my husband, Glen is the only adult I interacted with in person daily for 3 months straight. For one 12-day stint while our pandemic pod neighbors were quarantining, he was the only person I saw or spoke to outside of my family. We met in the fall, when my routine was to take the kids outside for a stroller walk at 11, which happened to be right when he was sorting mail into the neighborhood mailbox. It was that time of morning when we had exhausted every toy in the house, as well as all of our patience with each other, but it wasn’t lunch time yet. A cold walk allowed for a change of scenery, some exercise for me, and a chance to look around in nature for new things to talk about. It was so important to the flow of our days that we continued the routine into the winter, despite snow and bitter cold. Hill repeats pushing a 90 lb stroller, while singing Old Mcdonald, in 15 degree weather could really be the next big bootcamp style workout.

I don’t know if he was lonely and bored on his long, cold shifts, or if I was radiating desperation (I was), but he stopped sorting mail and talked to me for a few minutes every single day. He told me about his grandkids and proudly showed me their pictures. He asked about my family. He got to know my children. He gossiped about the overly politicized postal service issues happening in late 2020/early 2021. He shared his retirement plans. He asked about my health when I missed my walk for a few days (after breaking my tailbone on an icy slide – the glamour of last winter!), and he excitedly delivered my donut pillow later that week directly into my hands. Once, we got out for our walk a few minutes late, and we spotted him several blocks down the road, driving away. As my heart sank, watching my only conversation partner disappear, he actually did a u-turn and came back to chat for a few minutes. I have no idea what compelled him to be SO kind to me, but he was truly my lifeline during those cold months. I remember calling my mom after discussing politics and current events with him last January, saying, “I never thought I would be excited to stand in 10 degree weather listening to Glen’s political analysis, but I can’t even disagree with him out loud because I’m just so thankful for any conversation.” We talked to Glen almost every day until he retired in April, right before we moved in May.

It was definitely not part of his job description to make time to talk to us every day. Actually, in a job where it’s important to stay on schedule, be productive every minute, and where employees can be tracked via GPS to make sure they are sticking to the route and schedule, he was probably discouraged from spending time on the clock chatting with neighborhood residents. And while it is probably beneficial for mail carriers to be friendly to their customers, spending months getting to know someone goes way above and beyond an occasional friendly wave. Glen was demonstrating true compassion. His small, daily act of compassion kept me afloat during my tough winter. I know on a visceral level now just how valuable 2 minutes of kindness can be, and I will never forget mailman Glen.

Merriam-Webster defines compassion as “the sympathetic consciousness of others’ distress together with a desire to alleviate it.” I believe it’s the action piece of this definition that makes compassion so impactful to the recipient, as well as to the actor. It is easy to notice others’ distress, but action requires using your own personal resources – be it time, energy, attention, etc – to someone else’s benefit. As humans in an increasingly callous world, we have so many opportunities each day not only to notice others’ distress, but to act in small ways to alleviate it. We can spend an extra few minutes outside chatting with a neighbor, calling them by name. We can say kind words to the people who work in our grocery stores or the people who deliver our packages. We can notice when people in our daily orbit seem subdued and ask if they’re ok. We can send a quick text to old friends when we think of them. We can thank people for showing up in our lives, even when it's their job.

As physical therapists or other health care providers, we are in a unique position where people come to us with the EXPECTATION that we will alleviate their specific distress. Patients might verbalize the idea that medical treatment should “cure” their physical ailments. But, while some may not be able to put their finger this sentiment, they really expect us to alleviate their distress, which can only be done by providing compassion. In a medical practice, this manifests as kind words during an initial visit – “I’m really glad you came to me for help with this. We can really help you here.” This manifests as honest communication – “Your test results provide conflicting information, but we have a few treatment ideas to try while we keep looking for answers.” This manifests as validation – “That sounds really awful. I’m sorry it’s happening to you.”

This year, let's face each day with the knowledge that our tiny, compassionate gestures can have a major impact on others and on ourselves. Glen will never know the extent to which he impacted me last year, or the legacy that he left in our family - my kids still ask if it's "our friend Mr Glen" every time we see a mail truck. By identifying people in our community who could benefit from a few extra moments of kindness, and by recognizing that our patients are ALL people who need our kindness, we have unlimited opportunities to make a positive difference in our communities.