Sympathy and Dental Care

I wonder whether sympathy is a way of life. I mean, I wonder if sympathy is a way of positioning oneself more than it is a relational commodity or a card in the poker game of life.

I have always placed empathy above sympathy because it felt more real. There is no arguing with it. One's empathic concern for another person cannot be brushed off with a brusque, "You do not know my situation. Thanks, but no thanks. Have a nice day."

You see, sympathy, to me, always carried a hint of something pasted on or several degrees removed; empathy, an honesty and directness. A sympathizer might put on a sad face only to turn away and smile the next minute. An empathizer would never do that. Anyway, that is how I felt about it.

I say all this because I had an interesting experience at my last smile tune-up.

I went to the dentist last Monday and I could not help but notice that my hygienist looked sad. I estimate that she was around sixty years old, but she appeared younger to the untrained eye; her brown hair was a bit too rich to be her natural color, and her skin had been pulled slightly too taut over her forehead and cheekbones. She had no light in her eyes.

The Bible says to weep with those who weep, so that is what I did. My hygienist kept her tears inside; I, however, let my tears slide freely from the corners of my eyes as she took x-rays of my teeth, and particularly as I chomped down on the third plastic card she put in my mouth. That one hurt. I never could get the hang of biting those x-ray cards.

After she finished drilling and prodding, we waited for the doctor to check my teeth. The hygienist left my chair fully reclined while she sat nearby in silence. I felt rather like I was seeing a psychologist, and I half expected her to ask me, "How do you feel about that?" I felt awkward, if you really want to know. I decided to break the silence.

"What is the worst part about your job?" I cringed after I said it; I thought I should have asked what the best part of her job was. She was already sad, after all. I should have steered her into something pleasant.

"The neck and shoulder pain," she replied. She went on to tell me how she had been a hygienist for forty years and had to have neck surgery, and the chairs do not really help at all, there is just no way to get all the angles without hunching over, and she would be very upset if anyone she cared about decided to enter the profession.

I felt sympathy for her. Then the doctor arrived. My hygienist told him in glowing tones all about my "excellent home care," what "beautiful teeth" I had, and so on, sounding quite chipper and enthusiastic. This surprised me, and it got me thinking: perhaps I had not asked the wrong question when I asked what the worst part of her job was.

Perhaps sympathy was more than the emotion I felt as I listened to her story of neck surgery and imperfect dental chairs. Perhaps sympathy was the question I asked her, the opportunity to let her problems be real and important.

Perhaps sympathy is weeping an unprompted tear as a summons to the hoarded tears in others. Weep with those who weep. Even if they have not wept yet.

In turn, my hygienist rejoiced with me over my excellent home care.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

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