A Geek's Journey Into Brain Cancer-The Kleenex Box

The super-efficient *plunk* of the Kleenex box is familiar to anyone who leaks an emotion that is not hyper, dancing  joy.

The emotional message of the Kleenex box plunked in your lap is:  "You made a mess.  Clean it up."

Because human emotions are by definition messy, if you let one seep out it's the equivalent of a small jet of diarrhea, and people want that cleaned up NOW.

You can pretty accurately gauge the type of caregiver you're dealing with by whether they use the Kleenex box at all, and how they wield it.

In my experience there are two basic prototypes for an ER Nurse.  One uses not only the Kleenex box but also the threat of Last Rites to get you to control your mess.  One sees no use for the Kleenex.

Lynn is lean, tight-assed, efficient, razor-nosed, chilly and accurate.  She gets the exact information the doctors want in the exact way they want it and they love her for it.  Also, just imagine how much doctors love a tight ass (she does warm and soften a bit when she talks about how "athletically inclined" she is).

When I let a tear slide Lynn plunked the Kleenex box ("CLEAN THAT UP.")and asked me if she should get the Chaplain.

"The PRIEST?"  I said.  "WhuDa Fuck?" (One drop of saline on my cheek and tight-assed Lynn thinks I'm Linda BLAIR?)  "I'm New England Post-Transcendentalist." I explained, in what I thought was a kind tone.

Lynn was shocked by my language, both the profanity and the unfamiliar and weirdly specific philosophical stance (New Englanders tend to be very specific about odd things, like the fact that you had better offer MALT vinegar at the fish fry.  Don't try to sneak that cider crap onto the table.  Celts cheerfully disembowel people for less.)

"Well, alright then, no," Lynn said, flabbergasted.

Here's what the other nurse, Ingrid, did.  I started to sob in fear and she turned to me.  Her blue eyes locked on mine.  She crossed the room in a few steps and scooped me into her arms.  I sobbed while she rocked me.  She kept rocking me.  Eventually I loosened my grip and she sat back, looking at me with deep concern.  She knew how truly and deeply fucked my situation is.  She didn't try to pretend it wasn't.  But she reached out her very arms to me. She made it clear that I had value as a person and that my pain mattered.  She also made it clear that when I was with Ingrid I was not alone.

 I did also have the vivid feeling that you want Ingrid on your side whether you're about to have your head opened up like an egg or you're charging into Essex with only a short sword and shield.  Ingrid, in other words, was clearly of Shield Maiden stock and scared of absolutely fucking nothing.   She still did up a mean report and a perfect IV, but she never plunked a Kleenex box.

"But no," you might plead, "That's not what I mean when I hand over the Kleenex box.  I just don't know what else to do!"  Might I suggest:  start by imagining a different way to address someone who is in pain. Start by imagining that the emotion is not offenseive.  Shield Maiden Up.  Treat the person as if their pain matters.  Pretend it's not diarreah.   Turn toward them, rather than away.  Make eye contact with them.  Sit down beside them.  Hear them.

And don't order a cleanup.