Our discomfort with suffering may explain the ‘things we can’t hold on to’
My husband’s ALS doesn’t allow me to look away from it
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I walked with our dog, Comet, on a trail in the woods behind our house. The woods felt cool out of the hot sun. Light filtered through the trees overhead as I breathed in the rich smell of summer earth and pine. A ruffed grouse crossed our path, and Comet gave chase. The bird flapped furiously, escaping above the tree line.
Comet trotted ahead of me, sniffing with interest. He poked his head into a bush. When I caught up to him, he was eating something. On the ground sat a small bird’s nest, and next to it lay a tiny baby bird inside a cracked egg.
“Oh, Comet,” I said. I felt dismay — sad that the eggs in the nest hadn’t gotten a chance to hatch and grow.
Why was it upsetting to me? I restrained myself from scolding Comet. After all, he’s a dog. Why shouldn’t he have an egg for a snack? Comet’s dog food has chicken in it. I eat chicken and eggs without thinking about it. But I think that’s the difference — I don’t think about it. I buy my chicken in neatly wrapped packages from the grocery store. Sometimes I feel a little squeamish handling raw meat, but for the most part, I don’t think about where it came from.
Those things we can’t hold on to
Perhaps, just to survive, to cope, we humans try not to think too much about suffering. We can’t hold all of it — the sickness, the poverty, the wars, the natural disasters in our world. It’s too much for our nervous systems.
I don’t like to look suffering in its face, but living with my husband’s ALS doesn’t allow for that kind of distance. It’s a progressive disease, and it’s terminal. It’s sad to watch someone you love lose their abilities and need intensive care. It’s hard to live with the knowledge that death is imminent.
Perhaps people’s discomfort with death and suffering is why some friends and family have drifted away over the years. It’s hard to watch what ALS does to a person.
Over our 16 years with the disease, certain images have stayed with me: the first time we went to an ALS support group and I saw people much more progressed than Todd; the day he fell and bloodied his face after his legs weakened; and the time he quit breathing and I managed to restart his lungs. These traumatic moments are implanted in my brain, even though I don’t often think of them.
As I continued on my walk, I listened to other birds singing in the trees, and I tried to shake the image of that tiny bird on the ground.
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