Empathy and carrots

“I don’t like to think of it as ‘something is missing’ from me.” How many times do we have to go through this? “Though I know my condition is seen like that.” Matt moved his bum slowly in his seat to let out some of the uncomfortable feeling that this conversation was causing. “We all have different personalities, emotional responses, hormone levels. Isn’t it all of these things that make us who we are? Individual.” Then he, carefully, casually, and trying to look relaxed, folded his arms and turned to Dr Marie to signal he had finished sharing. Smile a bit. Dr Marie caught his eye. A thoughtful but hopeful smile. Dr Marie quickly looked away. Shit. Too much. Creepy.

A voice broke the temporary silence from directly across the circle. “I don’t know Matt.” Oh, for fucks sake. Matt moved his bum slightly left and right again. Steve and his fucking helpful uncertainty.

“Of course, Steve, totally open to hearing your thoughts”, said Matt. Let’s get it over and done with.

“We are all different but that freedom to be different can only work if we empathise with everyone else’s difference.” That fucking word again. Everyone is obsessed with it. Steve had made a good point. Matt knew this because everyone started moving their heads up and down like a line of those nodding dogs people used to have in their cars. Up. Down. Up. Down. All in agreeance.

“But I don’t CARE about people’s difference. That’s my point. Be different. Let’s all just do what we want. I don’t care! Want to drive an SUV in the centre of London? Total madness but ok. Want to use disposable plates because you hate washing up? Seems bad for the environment but ok. Like to have sex with 16-year-old girls? Probably not that enjoyable but ok.” The room recoiled. No up down up down. Many leftrightleftrights. A grumbling sound from within the group like a low tremor began to build. Oh, piss off. Group therapy: group judgement.

Dr Marie’s calm voice breezed over the rumble like salt air over sea waves. “It’s ok, Matt, and everyone. This is a safe place to express our thoughts. If Matt does not care about these things perhaps someone would like to openly and caringly explain why they do?”, Dr Marie asked as she smiled at each person in turn.

Steve’s hesitation was noticeable. His mouth twitched as he started and stopped the first syllable from leaving his mouth. This is like waiting for a very light and well-meaning slap to the face. “I think”, Steve finally began, “that if you had empathized with that poor woman, you wouldn’t be sat here with us now. Empathy makes a society. It means we can help each other and understand each other.”

How fucking dare, you, you wet lettuce of man. “Mrs. Cremwell has nothing to do with this! This is a discussion! Fuck you, you, wet lettuce of a man!”. Oh crap. Manage impulsivity. Thoughts in, assess, filter, words out. Actually, fuck this shit.

Matt had stood up so quickly that his foot had knocked over his tea onto the carpet as he simultaneously fired ‘lettuce!’ at Steve. He looked down and saw Sharon quietly crying with her hands covering her face. Just what I need – sad loons getting upset. Matt slammed the therapy room’s door behind him as he heard Dr Marie soothe “Anger, fear, sadness is all part of the process together, thank you for your time. Tomorrow…”

The truth is he had liked Mrs. Cremwell a lot. She was 76 when they met. She had soft grey hair that she always wore in a little ponytail that swished with youth. The day he moved into the flat above her she had brought him a plunger with a bow on it and said if he ever did a “big poo” and blocked the toilet they’d “all be done for.” Apparently, the plumbing was terrible and Matt was grateful for her gift many times after that day. Sometimes they would see each other in the stairwell and talk about the plumbing or the weather. She never outstayed her welcome, asked how he was or expected anything in return. Matt was certain that Mrs. Cremwell was ok with what happened that day. She had said so. But how could he be sure what she felt? He didn’t have empathy. Empathy Deficit Disorder. Better than a sociopath, I guess. Is there a hierarchy? The last Christmas that he lived above Mrs. Cremwell he had bought her the ‘Bosch Power’ liquid drain cleaner that had worked so well for his bathroom pipes. She unwrapped it in front of him and laughed then hugged it close to her body and said “This is lovely Matt; it is very thoughtful.”

After Matt had cooled down he went to the garden allotment and checked his carrots. Another idea from Dr Marie to help him understand the experience of other people. The plan, perhaps, was to force Matt to think about the carrot’s perspective. Did it have enough water? What signs was it showing? Matt loved the carrots. He didn’t know if it was helping him empathise but the partnership was magical. He planted them, watered them, checked their soil and they grew, adjusted and shot up into the air with all their colours spilling out. The carrots told him what they needed as, Dr Marie had said, and he responded as they needed. Nothing more or less. Four months previously all of the clinic had eaten the first of his carrots with Sunday lunch. Matt and the carrots had completed their purpose together. He had a good career before the incident that put him in this clinic but the carrot Sunday lunch felt better than any work he’d achieved before.

As Matt turned the corner, he saw Steve looking over the vegetable patches or more specifically, on second glance, looking at his carrots. That wet lettuce better leave my carrots alone. Steve seemed to have put something in the soil, looked around, smiled and walked away. Matt hurried over to inspect the soil after Steve had completely disappeared behind the canteen door. He checked each carrot top and measured the length. There were some rough brown patches which concerned Matt. He would check what the carrots were telling him in his allotment manual. However, the tops were now 8 inches long. All was going to plan for this coming Sunday dinner.

______

Dr Marie wished she hadn’t had that extra bottle of wine with her sister last night and called the next circle time at the Lily-Elsham Clinic ‘a shitshow’ in the email she wrote to her mentor afterwards.

“So” began Steve with a sigh, “you’re saying that by caring for another person’s well-being we are actually causing more damage?”

“Yessssss”, replied Matt. You nail head. With all your thinking and caring.

“This is madness! I mean, yes, we’re all mad but I think I’m actually turning madder listening to this! The only way we can help each other is through care. To want the best for someone, to understand their pain, to hear their hopes and fears and to do what we can…”

“You can’t know that”, Matt interrupted “You’re speaking in wishes. You cannot be inside a person’s body, mind or soul, you do not know their hopes and pain. The only thing you know is what they tell you so bloody believe it. The problem with you, Steve, is that you just want to fix someone so you’re not the most broken. You’re a weak wet lettuce. Crying and running around trying to be kind to hide your own self-hatred.” I might have gone too far.

Steve exploded. His eyes shone like Matt had never seen before. A live wire had stood up on end in his spine: “You’re a selfish murderer!”

Dr Marie banged her notepad on the arm of the chair. “Enough!”

It was too late. Steve ran at Matt and pushed him hard in his seat. Matt fell to the floor. The chair flipped and caught Steve. Both men tumbled around on the floor in a heap while Sharon lifted her legs and tried to subtly get out of the kerfuffle. Circle time was over.

After a brief chat with Dr Marie, who’s eyes looked puffy and red, Matt took the long route round to his carrots to think and walk it off. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. It shook his core to hear that word again. It ran through him and made the hair raise on his arms as if the murderer was nearby breathing on him, in him. Mrs. Cremwell had died, yes. It wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t old age. She had died in a coma surrounded by her family. A family who was furious and looking for someone to blame. That’s what his solicitor had said – “they need someone to blame.” It made sense. Less blame for everyone else. She wanted to die. She had told me so. She said I was thoughtful.

What is that whining motherfucker doing? Matt again saw Steve standing over his carrots and his thoughts were brutally interrupted. Then quickly, almost too quickly to see, he slipped a bag of something out of his jacket, did something Matt couldn’t see, and then, almost quicker than light, put it back in his pocket. Without a word or even looking up he walked back to the main building by the side door. Matt watched carefully and half ran half walked to the carrots as soon as Steve was out of sight. He couldn’t see anything anywhere. The carrots were looking better in fact. Some brown patches had cleared up and the leaves were looking robust and healthy. Matt smiled; he had been hearing them correctly.

__________

The last circle time of the week was always a sharing circle. Each person shared their thoughts, and worries. No response allowed. Only listening. More tears and comforting smiles.

“Zainab, could you please get some more tissues from the storage cupboard in the corridor?”, said Dr Marie. So many fucking tears. Steve thanked Zainab and apologized for taking up her time when it was her story.

Matt hated Fridays. The first Friday, many Fridays ago, he had thought it made sense. People felt better. There were claps and encouragement. But then stories changed, narratives became more complex, more characters became involved, there was no way to keep delving into the impossible puzzles of these emotions. Then there was the undeniable feeling of disappointment from all the expectant eyes when his turn came. What was he supposed to say to get it right?

“As I said last week”, Matt began as the circle of eyes pointed at him, “I just want to go home. I want my kitchen and my bed and I don’t want to hear anyone’s story. You will all live and all die and explaining your emotions to me will not change the kitchen I have to share and bed I have to sleep in which is not my own”. A pause then Dr Marie began the standard supportive clap at the end. The rest reluctantly followed with light, barely, audible hand touching hand sounds. And there is something else! “And oh, err…””, he interjected hesitantly “the carrots look good and will be ready for Sunday.” Steve clapped harder. Dr Marie made a note in her book.

Steve was last. He was always last. He had to pour out his tears before he could catch breath for words. “This week I have been trying to help people without getting praise in return. I want to apologise to Matt for what I said earlier this week. Also, thank you, Matt, for making me think about my own self-hatred and how I look to others to fix that. I am feeling good about it! I can’t give up my dreams for an empathetic world though. I do still think that is where peace is found.” Jesus Christ.

The air was calm. Dr Marie wished everyone a nice weekend and then shoved her laptop and notes in her bag, ran to her car and drove away. Sharon heard she had a date tonight with that other doctor who sometimes visited from Medcliff Hospital.

Matt was reminded that he had arranged that date the night Mrs. Cremwell had chosen to die. Would it have been different if he hadn’t. He had always had a need to be validated through sex. The night Mrs. Cremwell died that is all he had thought about. A girl called Eleanor he barely remembered. No wait, she was funny and had quite beautiful hair. He had taken everything Mrs. Cremwell wanted to her apartment. As the regional director or Smith and Smith, the biggest pharmaceutical company in the northern hemisphere, Matt could get any medication Mrs. Cremwell wanted. Isn’t that friendship? To give? He knew she planned to die. That her pain was something deeper and further than any of those pain killers could reach and to get there would be her end point. He had wished her a nice evening and she said goodbye. “Thank you, Matt”, she had said looking upwards at him with her kind blue eyes, “You have been very thoughtful.”

This time Matt got to the carrots first. He crouched behind the small diggers and spades shed and looked through the tiny gap in between the tree and the wall. He had positioned himself perfectly to watch Steve approach the carrots and, yet again, a small bag came out of his pocket and a white powder was scattered onto the soil. What the hell? Matt resisted the urge to run up and confront Steve. I want to know what this sneaky little bastard is doing. Steve left and disappeared. Matt got up, dusted himself off and hurried to the carrot patch. He couldn’t see anything. Whatever it was could not be seen now. The carrots looked great, full, healthy and ready for Sunday. The carrots were doing well but Steve was adding something to them. Confused but with a flicker of realization igniting, Matt headed over to the library to try and catch Beatrice before the library shut at 5pm.

“I just need to do a little google for my carrots. I want to check something. And your hair looks great since you had it cut!” Beatrice smiled and touched her hair around the edges like the good feeling would tumble out of the strands if she moved it too much. Flattery. So easy.

Then there it was, what Matt feared: ‘Gardeners also use Epsom salts to improve the growth of carrots. Epsom salts have neutral pH levels which means it will not affect your garden soil's pH.’ You bloody helpful motherfucker, Steve.

__________

On Sunday, the whole clinic, staff and patients, sat together for lunch. The lamb and roast potatoes showcased the carrots, which sat royally on each plate in their orange glow. Matt stood next to Steve. “They look amazing, Matt. You’re insane but you can grow a carrot”. Matt turned slowly, he hadn’t planned what to say, for two days he had waited and watched to see if Steve would irritatingly say: “I helped and your carrots survived and I told you so.” Nothing happened. Even now, stood looking at the carrots which would have perished without him, Steve said nothing. Smiling like a bloody idiot.

“Would you come to the patio table and eat lunch with me separately today, Steve?” Steve said nothing but collected his plate and followed Matt to the garden.

When they sat down, Matt regretted his brazen decision. What the bloody hell was I going to say when I got him here? Unexpectedly, after what felt like a very long time, Steve began, “So you know I helped with your carrots I guess. I’m sorry, Matt. I know you love those carrots and Sunday was approaching and I thought I couldn’t bear it if they died and you were disappointed. It could set you back on your journey and you’ve been doing so well.” Steve’s words rumbled outwards; head hung downwards, only looking at the carrots which sat proud but motionless and untouched on his plate.

Ok, Here we go. “Steve, they could have died. It’s ok. I never needed them to live. The fate is their own. I can only provide what I know.” At first it was quiet, Matt breathed out and then Steve began to cry. He looked at Matt and his eyes filled with water before it tipped over the edge of his bottom lashes. His cheeks got wetter and wetter but he remained perfectly still until he finally spoke.

“I loved my wife so much. I knew how to make her tea perfectly. Tiny bit of milk and one sugar. The shampoo she used. That she hated cleaning on the weekends. That she enjoyed seeing the sun come up so we always kept the bedroom curtains open. When I came home and found her hanging from the staircase, I didn’t even know she was sad. If I had listened harder, cared more, looked at her more deeply, I could have helped her.”

“Maybe if you had listened harder, cared more, you may have heard – I want to die, I want silence, I want the end. You cannot keep searching to cure the pain you missed once. You’ll never be content. Her pain is not yours to find.”

The tears slowly dropped onto his hands. Minutes passed and the silence sat comfortably around and in between their bodies - insulation made of sadness and momentary acceptance.

After sometime Steve said, “I felt pretty content when I saw those carrots on your plate and your old grumpy face smiling at them.”

Matt laughed and extremely hesitantly put a hand on Steve’s shoulder like he had seen Dr Marie do before. “Yeah, it felt pretty good…your help… it was very thoughtful.”