[2022-02-06] Chipil
I have a friend who writes to me every weekend. He reflects on the blog posts I've published in the previous week and adds stories and references from his own life that connect to what I've written. Today, he opened with this:
In a previous entry, you said that you "normally downplay how ill [you] feel." I can understand that. It’s difficult to strike a balance between what can be said in public and what must stay private. I could tell you that with me you don’t have to downplay how ill you feel. However, I also understand that you are the only person who can choose who you can trust with your story. I am here to support you and to be also your cheerleader.
I decided to share with my friend that the pain of radiation was starting to take a toll on my emotions. I responded:
A good indication of how hard something is (chemo, radiation, recovery from surgery) is its impact on my mood. While I'm still generally even-keeled, I do find myself getting more sentimental over touching stories and, honestly, just feeling tired of experiencing pain. Fortunately, the pain is not constant. If I can find a comfortable position, I can spend time with little or no pain. I'll be very glad when I have recovered from the radiation treatments.
It's been 32 days since the start of radiation. Just as the physical side effects are cumulative, the mental impacts are additive. It's hard not to indulge in self-pity.
Fortunately, I stumbled upon the subject of feeling sorry for oneself today when I reread my best bits from the book Tuesdays with Morrie. As I wrote in Love and meaning, author Mitch Albom met weekly with Morrie Schwartz, a former college professor, who had been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease) as the latter narrated his final journey from life to death. In one conversation, Albom asks Morrie whether he feels sorry for himself.
"Sometimes, in the mornings," he said. "That’s when I mourn. I feel around my body, I move my fingers and my hands—whatever I can still move—and I mourn what I’ve lost. I mourn the slow, insidious way in which I’m dying. But then I stop mourning." Just like that? "I give myself a good cry if I need it. But then I concentrate on all the good things still in my life. On the people who are coming to see me. On the stories I’m going to hear."
Reflecting on what his former professor said, Albom adds:
I thought about all the people I knew who spent many of their waking hours feeling sorry for themselves. How useful it would be to put a daily limit on self-pity. Just a few tearful minutes, then on with the day. And if Morrie could do it, with such a horrible disease….
Morrie's perspective was a timely reminder to me to acknowledge my pain—physical and mental—but then to get on with my day. And that's what I did. As Albom points out, if Morrie could pause the pity party despite the certainty of his impending death, surely I could do that for something temporary like radiation treatment.
After admitting to my friend that I was experiencing moments of melancholy, he sent back these wise words:
It's okay to feel "chipil", a Mexican Spanish word for when people, especially young children, need hugs.
Stay strong, Jen. And don't worry if you feel "chipil". It's part of the journey.
Many of us are feeling sad and gloomy ("chipil") and could no doubt benefit from a hug. You could be the person to give someone else an actual hug or—like my friend—a virtual one simply by passing along a few kind words.
