Heartbreaking: My Journey from Bitch to Better Person

Self-knowledge only goes so far, it’s what you do with it that counts

I never used to worry about becoming a better person; I thought I was nice enough already. I grew up Catholic, attended church every Sunday, went to confession. I never spent a New York minute on the shady side of a principal’s office or a police station. I knew I wasn’t perfect (Who is?) but, I carried the certainty that I was “a good-hearted person” or, at least “good enough.” That all changed the day I realized I wasn’t as nice as I thought I was. This is the story of how I learned that a good person isn’t a finished product. A good person is constantly under construction.

A dark epiphany

Lying in my hospital room, just hours after hip replacement surgery, I was suffering from a migraine. The nurses could not administer my regular medication without my doctor’s okay, and it was the middle of the night. I could plan on at least eight more hours of pain that not even a morphine drip had put a dent in. I had undergone a major operation, I was in pain, and all I wanted to do was sleep.

Suddenly, amid loud and considerable commotion, an emergency case was wheeled in. The patient was a very old woman with Alzheimer’s disease who had fallen and broken her hip. She was not only in pain but terrified, in no small part because the room was filled with a United Nations of male medical personnel who were attempting to remove her clothes. (She probably imagined she was being assaulted by an invading army.) The scene would have turned most any heart to mush but, in my mind, I realized it was still all about me. I wanted her gone. I had just had my leg sawed off and reattached. I already had a roommate. This was my time to be the big deal in the room. How much attention was I going to get with this human tragedy playing out at full volume?

Excuses? I’ve got a few

To be fair to me (selfish people always demand what’s fair), the hospital could have done better. A woman born when Queen Victoria was on the throne should not have been subject to three men attempting, none too gently, to remove her bra. They should have ousted the woman’s daughter who, instead of comforting her mother, spewed out an unceasing monologue about how all this was affecting her, attempting to elicit sympathy for what she “had to put up with.” A woman in her mother’s condition warranted a private room and my roommate and myself, who had both undergone bionic woman adjustments, desperately needed to rest. Unfortunately, the hospital was overcrowded, and we had to wait for a room to free up. About four hours later, after the old lady was stable and had lapsed into vocalizing long strings of “Ee-aye-ee-aye-oh” with periodic bursts of the phrase “Judy, Judy, Judy” (not in a Cary Grant accent, thank God) someone went to his or her eternal reward. A private room was procured, and the thorn in my side was removed, along with the notion that I was “a very nice person.”

The limits of self-knowledge

It would be gratifying to report that this epiphany was transformative. It was, but not in a good way. Freed from the assumption of my spiritual superiority, I occasionally indulged in withholding my finer feelings when others were in distress. I was not deliberately cruel, yet my cruelty lay in my indifference. I now knew the truth about myself: It seemed I didn’t really care much about other people’s pain and I didn’t care much that I didn’t. I was off the hook.

But I did care. I’m not a sociopath. When presented with the opportunity to do a great kindness, as when my friend’s house burned down, I rose to the occasion willingly and without resentment. For the next seven months, I provided her with housing, emotional support, practical assistance, laughter, and dare I say, love? In the big things, I was golden. It was the little things I needed to work on.

Small mercies

The COVID-19 virus has presented me with an opportunity to work on those little things. On St. Patrick’s Day, the restaurants had already been closed and nobody was offering take-out corned beef and cabbage. A man on Nextdoor was desperate for some. We’d already eaten, but I’d also baked a dozen chocolate Irish cream cupcakes, too much for just my husband and myself. I put four in a bag and the Nextdoor neighbor picked them up on my doorstep. Another lady supplied the corned beef dinner. Score one for small mercies. My husband’s barbershop has been shuttered. The owner, a young man in his early twenties who has built his business to include two shops, is facing financial ruin. He’s asked for help and, where at one time I would have pitched in $25, I widened the purse strings to contribute $100. Score two.

Strengthening bonds before the clock runs down

I recently called a close friend I’d been avoiding because she has COPD and is in the hospital with pneumonia. I’ve been mentally preparing for her to die for years because, like my mother-in-law, for whose decline and death I had a front-row seat, she’s still smoking. Of all the people I know, she has the highest risk of succumbing to this pandemic. Distancing myself, I thought, would make it easier — for me. When I did call, I was relieved to hear that she tested negative for COVID-19. She’s doing okay, but she’s lonely. As an extremely social person, a private hospital room with no visitors allowed is tough for her. She didn’t have the strength to talk long, but she said my call meant a lot to her. I’m glad I made it and urged other friends to call as well.

There are more people I’m going to call, care packages and letters I’m going to send. If you don’t have any friends, technology allows you to safely make some, even in the face of a raging pandemic. And remember, there’s always room to be a better friend to the ones you’ve got. That friend I called in the hospital? Her house was rebuilt years ago, but our friendship, like my heart, is constantly under construction.

© 2020, Denise Shelton. All rights reserved.