Blogging · His Days (about the husband) · Mi Vida Loca · nonfiction · Stories of my life · writing

Learning Compassion



I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I do the daily dishes. I’m worried about him, as he hasn’t eaten in a couple of days. He has hardly moved from his bed in the same amount of time.

I know I can’t nag him to eat. I’ve tried that in the past and it just makes us both miserable. I feel bad because the other day he asked for something special to eat and I had to tell him no. Not because I wouldn’t cook it because we had no money to buy it to cook. He didn’t seem to understand when I explained it to him.

He doesn’t understand lots of things now. It saddens me, but I have learned not to let it linger in my mind. It’s not his fault. It’s the fault of his medications. The strong pain pills he takes several times a day. They have robbed him of his sharp mind like the pain has robbed him of his appetite, his focus, his ability to function like he used to.

When we moved into this 30-year-old mobile home almost 2 years ago. We decided to put his twin size bed in the living room. He loves his TV, but the couch was too uncomfortable for him to lay on all day. So we got rid of the old loveseat and put in a twin bed we got for free. It has worked out well. The TV gives him something to do.

I watch him as I do the dishes. I see the deep furrows of pain on his face. I wish I could do something more for him but I know I can’t. Soon his afternoon pills will take effect, his eyes will gloss over, the furrows won’t be quite so deep. For a little while.

I finish the last dish, put it in the dish rack to air dry, wipe my hands and make myself another cup of coffee. I’ve been in the kitchen for 45 minutes and not a word was spoken between him and I. Just the sound of the TV going and the clink of dishes being cleaned.

I walk down the hall to my office and sit down with my coffee cup in  hand. Taking small sips, I think about the last time we spoke to each other. Was it yesterday? Or the day before? I lay my head back and close my eyes. We don’t speak much anymore. I’ve learned to accept it. As I’ve learned to accept a lot of things the last few years.

I could sink into a pool of self-pity, but why? It’s not his fault he became disabled, so racked with pain that taking a simple shower has to be planned ahead of time, just so the pain will be somewhat manageable.

I could rage at the universe and cry an ocean of tears. Again, why? The universe is not to blame for the circumstances that made us lose our home and come to live in a broken down trailer. It’s a roof over our heads and heat in the winter.

I could rail against it all. I have in the past, I won’t lie about that. I’m human, with faults. So, I railed against something him and I had no control over. I cried, I felt sorry for myself. Worse of all, I wanted to leave. I wanted to run away from the pain. His pain and mine. I wanted to run fast and as far as I could. Half way across the world.

I didn’t run. I couldn’t run. I won’t run.

Instead, I learned compassion. Compassion for him. He doesn’t want to be in this much pain. Every single day, every single minute, to live in pain. Who would want that? So I find my compassion for him. My patience. My desire to help ease his suffering if I can. Which I can’t.

I can only help him suffer less. I will settle for that.

I have also learned to have compassion for myself. That was the hardest part. To be gentle with myself as much as I am gentle with him. I make mistakes, I lose my temper, I get frustrated, I get depressed. It’s ok to feel all these things. I will NOT beat myself up over having these feelings because they never last. I can’t let them. I won’t let them. I feel them and then I let them go without the guilt.

I open my eyes, sip my coffee and keep an ear out for him as I face my computer and do what I know I’m good at. Writing words.

I write the words I cannot speak out loud. I write the words that my soul feels. I write the words that I have learned. I write my heart. That’s how I learn compassion all over again.




23 thoughts on “Learning Compassion

  1. It’s funny being a writer eloquence should roll from my keyboard, and yet so often when I read the words of others, especially words of heartache, I find that mere words all seem to sound cliche. I wish that I could give you a hug because that would convey what my heart feels. I cannot of course, so consider this a virtual hug. Know that I have connected with your words and my heart aches at the thought of yours and his suffering.


    1. Thank you so much Dani, I will gladly accept your hug and return it to you. Writing is a fickle creature I found, sometimes it flows, other times it stumbles. Thank you for thinking mine flowed today.

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  2. “I can only help him suffer less. I will settle for that.” Such wisdom here. It a hard lesson – no one wants to learn – that you can’t fix everything. Live gently and with compassion few manage.You are an old soul placed here on purpose. May sun warm you and soothe into smiles


  3. I am so sorry he has so much pain, Jackie. It is good he isn’t alone, and that you are graced with the ability to have compassion for him and take care of him. I know it’s not an easy life, and I am in awe of how upbeat and positive you always are. Your sentiments today were beautifully written.

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    1. Thank you so much Maddie my dear friend. From you that means the world to me. I too am sorry he is in so much pain and there is nothing much I can do for him, I can just try and make things a bit easier. Maybe it’s enough.


  4. Compassion is enough. It’s making you a fantastic writer. There is nothing you can do but care. It’s what we all have to do. You wonder where the pain sends him. I know it breaks your heart. We are all trying to virtually hold you up through this. Keep writing. Hugs my friend.


  5. Beautifully written, Jackie, about some of the hardest lessons many of us have to learn: to accept we can’t fix much at all and make the best out of the situation anyway. You already know how much I admire your strength – even in your weakest moments(which we all have) it is there, like a shining light. Hugs and <3!!


    1. Thank you tiny. I know you understand all too well what I feel sometimes. You are a stong woman yourself and you know I also admire you. I am so grateful we have ‘met’ on here as you have become someone I treasure. Hugs and <3!!!

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