On Empathy, Anxiety, and Being Alone

 Last night as I was winding down from a long day, my phone scrolled through some photographic memories from the last 5-6 years. One of the photos was from the American Sheep Industry conference in Fort Worth, Texas - taken on January 18, 2023. As I looked at the photo, I realized that just 10 days later, Sami would have the first of two brain surgeries. I was struck by how quickly our world changed during those 10 days.

This morning, my sister called to tell me that my brother-in-law’s friend and coworker had been having difficulty finishing his sentences (similar to Sami’s early symptoms). He’d had an MRI yesterday, and was in surgery for a brain tumor this morning. The anxiety we felt on that January evening three years ago came flooding back.

But as I sat with my thoughts, I also felt deep empathy for this man and his family - people whom I’ve never met. Nobody’s path through this is exactly the same, but having now experienced losing a partner to glioblastoma, I have at least some sense of how his wife must be feeling this morning. Even with friends and family around, there is a sense of having to face this awful thing alone.

For me, the loneliness returns when I learn of other people going through this trauma. My immediate inclination after talking to my sister this morning was that I needed to share this awful news, and how I was reliving our experiences, with someone. But there’s really no one to share it with. I thought of texting our daughters, but I didn’t want to make them relive the winter and spring of 2023. I thought of telling a close friend, but I didn’t know how to begin. “Hey, a guy I don’t know has a brain tumor, and it’s really upsetting me,” doesn’t seem to be something I am comfortable sharing with anyone. Not because my friends aren’t empathetic; I simply don’t feel close enough to anyone this morning to lay the burden of my anxiety and sadness on them.

I’ve been feeling melancholy for the last week or so. Part of this, I know, is the normal post-holiday letdown I feel every year. January, I think, has always been my least favorite month. Part of it, though, is also a longing for my old life. Last weekend, I helped with a lambing school at UC’s sheep research facility in Hopland. I had a great time, but looking at the slides of our sheep, of our pastures near Auburn, made me miss those times. The time before Sami got cancer. The time before I moved to a new house. The time before I was alone.