E is for...

When I was in college I would visit my grandfather who lived in a convalescent home. I liked visiting with my grandfather, but I hated the smell and the sounds of where he lived. It wasn’t that it was a bad place – but the whole place reeked with the smell of cleaning supplies and soiled beds. Hallways were jammed with white haired people whose heads bopped up and down while they dozed on and off in their wheelchairs. Their crinkled hands folded in their laps, moving slowly to wipe the corners of their mouths while television sets tuned loudly to random stations would drown out the wails of some. Each time I would visit, I would stop before entering the building and take a deep breath – both to steel my nose and to strengthen my resolve. Then, I would open the door and head to his room as fast as I could. I looked neither left nor right so that I did not have to see the people in the hallway. I kept my vision focused so I would not have to respond to anyone’s calls or comments. I was there to see my grandpa. My feet knew where to go and I could make it in 22 seconds – right before I needed to take another breath. But when I went with my father, it was a much different experience.

I remember the first time quite clearly. As we came within reach of the door to the building, I took my usual deep breath and prepared to move as quickly as possible to my grandfather’s room where I could breathe again. But when my dad opened the door, he turned to the right AWAY from his father’s room. He walked straight into another resident's room, and greeted the woman lying in her bed – by her name as if he belonged there. He took her ancient hand in his and squeezed it softly. He asked about her children and her grandchildren. They talked about her great-granddaughter that had just been born. He stayed with her for only a few minutes – but to me, an impatient 18 year-old, it felt like an eternity. “What are you doing?” I wondered. “We’re here to see grandpa – let’s go!”

He left her and he walked to the doorway of the next room. He called out to the bald headed man wearing a baseball cap, who was seated in his wheelchair. He was sleeping to the blaring sounds of a Bonanza rerun and did not respond. My father walked up to him, touched him gently on the arm, and said his name again. The man startled slightly, then broke into a huge grin and grabbed my father’s arm and welcomed him. They spoke for a while about baseball and players and teams and who was going win the pennant. And again my impatience swelled up within me and I tried to move him towards the door. “Grandpa,” I muttered to myself. “We are here to see grandpa!”

After we left his room, we stopped again, and again and again. My father proceeded to greet everyone who sat in the hall, who lounged in their room, or who was meandering in the corridors with their walkers, by their names. He would stop, bend down, touch their hands, pat their arms and chat with each of them as if he knew them. And the walk to my grandfather’s room took over half an hour. Although I managed to keep a smile on my face and join my father in saying hello to each and every single person, I was beyond irritated by the time we got to my grandfather's room. My father paused for a moment at my grandfather's door, “You know, Susan,” he said, “for some of these people, I am their only visitor. Many of the people in here don’t have family nearby, or their family is just too busy – or too disinterested to take the time to visit. For some of these people, I’m the only one who sees them.”

And I was instantly both ashamed and amazed by that simple, but profound comment –“I’m the only one who sees them.” There have been so many times in my life when all I needed was just to be seen, to be noticed – when all I wanted was someone to look me in the eyes and say, “I know you are here. I see you. You are not alone.” I've always known that there were many qualities I wanted to ‘inherit’ from my father – but on that day I wanted none more so than his eyes.

Being seen is powerful. It makes us feel human, respected, treasured, loved. It can validate our worth. It can lighten whatever burden or pain we are carrying. When I see someone, truly see them, I am acknowledging that they have value, that their existence matters. I am still so not good at this ‘seeing’ thing. I still get wrapped up in my own agenda, my own problems, my own priorities, and I still fail more often than not to see the people around me. But as I grow older, and hopefully wiser, I am learning to see the people in my world. All the people, not just the ones I know. Random people, strangers, I need to see them just as much as the ones I love. And I mean really see them, look them in the eyes, touch their arm, shake their hand, and hopefully let them know they have significance. They have worth. They are valued and they are not alone.

E is for my Father’s Eyes…