Compassion, not Judgment
His name isn't important. He could be you or me, anyone really. He began the conversation by telling me he needed to move out of the desert. He said it was killing him. When I asked him to explain he said, "Look at me, I'm the same age as you. When I moved here four years ago I took zero medication. ZERO!" He formed a circle with thumb and forefinger and put it close to my eyes so I'd be sure to get the point. "Now I take ten different pills every day." He held up both hands, fingers fanned.
"I take two anti-depressants. I take two blood pressure pills. I take a blood thinner. I take pills for diabetes, GERD, and a couple that I don't even remember what the heck they're for. And four years ago I took none." He then told me he'd had a mild stroke and two heart attacks over that same four year period.
I'm not good at just listening when I think I can help. In as gentle a voice as I could manage I asked, "How's your diet?"
He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.
"I knew you'd ask me that. Well, I'm going to tell you. I'm eating better."
"That's great. More plants? Less meat? What are you doing?" The door was open, I thought.
"Oh, no. I still have my hamburgers every day. But I'm buying better cuts of meat now. No more of that cheap pink stuff. I'm cutting back on my salt, too. And I'm eating at least one piece of fruit every morning."
"That's good to hear. Are you getting any greens?"
"I have salad at least twice a week. You know what my real problem is? It's soda. I can't stop drinking soda. You know a few years back, because I was on a new job, I stopped drinking soda for six months."
"You must have lost weight."
"Forty pounds! Of course, when I started again it all came right back. I didn't really like that job."
"So, why do you need to get out of here?"
He smiled. "Back east, where I come from in Georgia, they got better doctors. These doctors out here are prescribing the wrong kind of pills."
I wanted to share something with him, anything, that might cause him to give a thought to the role he was playing in his decline. "When I'd had enough of feeling lousy, the first thing I gave up was soda too. I've never looked back."
He fixed me with a steel-eyed stare. "I'm going to try to cut back."
"That's good,"
"I take two anti-depressants. I take two blood pressure pills. I take a blood thinner. I take pills for diabetes, GERD, and a couple that I don't even remember what the heck they're for. And four years ago I took none." He then told me he'd had a mild stroke and two heart attacks over that same four year period.
I'm not good at just listening when I think I can help. In as gentle a voice as I could manage I asked, "How's your diet?"
He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.
"I knew you'd ask me that. Well, I'm going to tell you. I'm eating better."
"That's great. More plants? Less meat? What are you doing?" The door was open, I thought.
"Oh, no. I still have my hamburgers every day. But I'm buying better cuts of meat now. No more of that cheap pink stuff. I'm cutting back on my salt, too. And I'm eating at least one piece of fruit every morning."
"That's good to hear. Are you getting any greens?"
"I have salad at least twice a week. You know what my real problem is? It's soda. I can't stop drinking soda. You know a few years back, because I was on a new job, I stopped drinking soda for six months."
"You must have lost weight."
"Forty pounds! Of course, when I started again it all came right back. I didn't really like that job."
"So, why do you need to get out of here?"
He smiled. "Back east, where I come from in Georgia, they got better doctors. These doctors out here are prescribing the wrong kind of pills."
I wanted to share something with him, anything, that might cause him to give a thought to the role he was playing in his decline. "When I'd had enough of feeling lousy, the first thing I gave up was soda too. I've never looked back."
He fixed me with a steel-eyed stare. "I'm going to try to cut back."
"That's good,"
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