What Happens Next: A Gallimaufry

melancholic romantic comic cynic. bi & genderqueer. fantasy writer. sysrae on ao3.

on compassion

My grandmother is 92, and this weekend she had to go into hospital because she couldn’t swallow. When she arrived there, the doctor asked her to get undressed, put on the hospital gown and hop into bed to wait to be seen.

‘Oh!’ said my grandmother, looking at the bed. 'But I won’t be there long, and I’ll ruin all those lovely clean sheets and linens.’

Now, this might seem to you like a strange thing to be worrying about when you’ve been admitted to hospital because you’re coughing uncontrollably and can’t keep anything down, but here’s the thing: my grandmother cares about people. She has the kind of compassion that comes from the genuine, heartfelt belief that everyone is important; that everyone deserves kindness, respect and consideration. And because she grew up in the depression, virtually raising her younger sister without help from family (her father left when she was young, and her mother died when she was a teenager) she appreciates the effort, the hard work, that goes into doing even small tasks well.

So when she looked at those clean sheets in the hospital, even though she was the one who was sick, my grandmother wasn’t thinking about herself. She was thinking about the hardworking hospital staff - the nurses and orderlies and cleaners - who’d have to strip the bed, wash the sheets, and then set it all up again, just so she could lie there for a while, before the next patient came along.

In a culture where the people who perform so-called menial chores like cleaning and caregiving are so often ignored or elided, or treated like rubbish, or forgotten, or abused and disdained by their employers, my grandmother not only sees them, but actively thinks about their needs - about what she can do to for them, about how to make their lives easier rather than harder. She’s so frail now, she has carers come to look after her at home, some of whom speak English as a second or third language, or who are new migrants, hardworking and shy, and my grandmother - who once defied her husband and popular sentiment both to teach English to Japanese immigrants to Australia after the war - helps them with their language studies, with their visa applications, with applying for jobs and university courses. She takes an interest in their lives, their families; not out of some obscure sense of duty or politeness, but because it would never occur to her to do otherwise. 

My grandmother is nearly blind, but she sees people more truly than anyone else I know. If I grow up to be even half as kind as her, then I’ll have done well in life.

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    Wow this is amazing
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