Compassion = to suffer with

Here is a story that’s given me comfort this week, at a time when I really need it.



My mom is wearing a dark blue pantsuit, teasing up her black hair with a comb. She’s in front of the bathroom mirror, getting ready for a job interview.

I’m confused. If she’s going to get a new nurse job, why isn’t she wearing her uniform? She always looks so pretty when she leaves for work in her straight bleached dress, her starched cap, her white stockings and polished white shoes. Today she is getting ready to go to the hospital where she works, but not looking anything like a nurse.

Our babysitter’s name is Karen. Karen’s hair is long and blond and has never been cut. My short brown hair makes me feel like a boy, and I dream of having hair like Karen’s some day. Karen is 11 or 12 years old. Her mom is Louise, my mom’s best friend. Louise works at the hamburger drive-thru by Walgreen’s. Today Louise is at her house down the street from us. If Karen needs help, she can call her mom.

Fritzi is our little terrier. She is a lively, gray-black spazzmatazz, who knows how to make my mom laugh. My mom says Fritzi has springs in her butt. When we were at our old house on Madison we had a chain link fence around the front yard, and Fritzi was not allowed beyond it. She greeted us at the gate by standing and jumping 6 feet straight up in the air. She could jump up and look my dad in the eye. She wasn’t smart enough to figure out that she could launch her body over the fence to freedom. My mom always said that was a good thing, that Fritzi was so dumb. At the new house we have no fence. Now we keep Fritzi on a chain while we are in the yard with her. Her great joy is chasing cars, and the chain protects her from enjoying this liberty.

When my mom is ready to leave for her interview, she smells like lipstick and perfume. She never smells this way when she goes to work in her white uniform. Before she leaves she says, “Katy, don’t forget to put Fritzi on her chain.” I say, “I won’t forget!” I am 6 or 7.

I don’t put the dog on her chain. Instead, the 3 of us - Karen, Mike and I, sit on the cement stoop of the white split foyer while Fritzi runs around like a maniac. She is hilariously entertaining, and we have lots of laughs. Fritzi even chases cars sometimes, and we squeal with excitement and delight. Fritzi is having the time of her life, and we love watching her.

Then the fun stops. I’m still laughing when Karen says, “Fritzi just got hit!” I say “I know you are just kidding!” Then Karen is running up the street toward Fritzi. I follow right behind her, and see that the dog is lying in the street, motionless. Her fur is wet and red. When I see this I stop running, and time gets still. My arms go cold, and the screams I hear coming from my mouth are very far away from me. Three young bodies dance around in the street in tearful confusion. Then the searing pain I’ve never felt before rushes into the middle of my chest. How did I let this happen? The driver who’d hit Fritzi just kept going, and Karen later told my mom that it looked like he’d swerved to hit her.

It felt like hours before someone driving by stopped to help us. He told Karen to take Mike and I home, then he picked the dog up off the pavement and placed her in our little red wagon. It’s not until just now that it occurs to me - who was that good man who acted out such kindness? Was he the first to see us, or did others pass us by, not knowing what to do?

The next thing I remember is my mom coming home. Mike and I are standing in the split foyer entryway. She walks in with her purse over her shoulder, still smelling like lipstick and perfume. Her face is more open than usual, and I don’t know how to read it. She stands in front of us, trying to hear the story through our sobs and tears. I expect her to be mad at me since it was all my fault. I’m the one who didn’t listen. I’m the one who didn’t chain the dog up like I was supposed to.

And then my mom surprised me. She got down on her knees and wiped our faces with the sleeve of her blouse. She huddled with us and, although she was not crying, I knew she too was in pain. She was suffering with us. She put her arms around us, her wide angel wings, and pulled us into her sweet smelling body. She held us. She buried her face in our hair, and absorbed our shaking grief. And then, without speaking a word, through the wisdom of her body, she said to us:

“This will be okay, and you will be alright. You are scared and confused, but you are safe. I am here to take care of you and to be with you. We are in this together and I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I would give you anything, and for you I would do anything. I will never leave you, and I will love you no matter what. ”

She holds us this way until our little string bean bodies stop shaking, then she takes our hands in silence and leads us up to the kitchen.