The truth is that we want to run. And we sort of run without trying to look like we're running. We try not to look like we're in a hurry. We try to keep our pace casual and our face neutral. We work to not let the elation that we can leave show up on our face so that anyone would notice it. Everyone smiles at us and we smile at everyone else. All of us are faking it.
Certainly, it is a privilege to be here. We are showing our humanity and care for others. We are blessing people with the simplest gesture of our presence. But, if we're honest about it, we probably hate it. If you don't hate it, then you're a freaking saint, and I admire you from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. I often feel sad or angry when I see someone there not getting what they need, and I know I am pretty powerless to fix it. I am at times grossed out and dismayed by what I see. I do not want to pick up the mantle of handling it, of being responsible for it. I want to pass that buck along as fast as I can. And then go home.
I feel guilty for wanting to run screaming from the building. I feel guilty for being grateful that I'm not in the same situation they are. Five decades and counting on this Earth have left me feeling guilty about my relative youth. I feel pure dismay that some can function fully and some cannot. My heart aches for those who have lost hope and sit staring, barely responsive. I want to shake those who complain, because others in the same room always have it worse.
I wish there were more people who cared as deeply as the best of us, so that those who just show up for a paycheck didn't have to be there anymore. I wish there was a way for any of us, all of us, to age with more grace. Any of us could find ourselves permanently seated and being cared for. We're the ones who watch the back of our loved one as they leave– not running–as they smile. They don't show their elation at leaving. They wave, trying to hide their own delight that they at least can depart from this place.
We see loved ones trying to explain to their children that they have to behave. They have to smile. They have to hug. They have to accept stale candy from sweaty palms and linty purses. We explain as our children get older that we're not going just for us, we're going for them. We will be the highlight of their day, week, month? That their youth is so attractive and precious that it beats all the adults coming to visit. One young child showing up is a radiant gift, even just for 30 minutes. And we can't explain it to them any more than we would have understood it at their age; the nuance and the need and the sorrow and the joy in the visit. The repeated questions, the dribbled chin, sometimes the inability to hold a cup to their own lips.
But this is how we care. This is how we love. This is how, as humans, we say thank you for when the roles were reversed. It hurts. It sucks. It's uncomfortable, especially if we admit we really want to run. Especially when, even with that desire, we stay.
Music from "The Green Mile" by Thomas Newman