musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

Illusion is the first of all pleasures


Maybe I listen too much; maybe I adapt too well: as I age others are finding new labels for my behaviours -labels which may seem apt at first perhaps, but cannot withstand even the feeblest of analysis. I rush to beg those who don’t know me personally not to judge my deportment too harshly: I mean well; I always mean well… But some of my friends seem to think I’m too attentive; that I’m too willing to cave to their opinions. I explain that my own opinions were never carved in stone, so I’m usually taking some time to reassess my own views rather than choosing to argue…

I think there is often a case to be made for at least an initial hesitation to accept the opinion on offer: it suggests that a reconsideration or maybe a reworking of the contender’s view might be in order to decide why they thought they were correct; immediate agreement does not facilitate that. In that sense, I suppose any hesitation may have helped them: we learn from our mistakes; in fact it is part of the scientific method: theorize, experiment, and then revise if appropriate. Unnecessary argumentation often merely thickens walls…

But I don’t see it as withdrawing without out a fight; I am not a coward. I look upon silence as being valuable: not being tied to my own opinion without first considering the ramifications -if any- of accepting what has been offered by someone who has hopefully also thought about it but come to a different conclusion. How else can I ever hope to learn?

Still, there is something that I do reject: that in not immediately arguing about the opinion I am offered I am agreeing with it; or that I am just being kind; or worse, that my first reaction is to fawn: that in feeling initial discomfort with the opinion offered I try to appease the person rather than resisting, rather than arguing my case, rather than standing my ground as if honour required that I resist… As if I feared a threat if I disagreed…

Contrary to some observations I do not constantly monitor other people’s moods in order to accommodate to them; my hesitation to harmonize with their assertions is not a reflexive kindness, not a form of self-erasure. Although I appreciate them smiling, pleased that I am not contesting their view, I am not trying to appease them; usually I am simply trying to come to grips with why they would choose to believe what they have said. It’s standard procedure in a debate: listen carefully, clarify their assertion to ensure I have understood it correctly, and then either state my own view or attempt to rebut theirs. Sometimes, having understood their  position, I find I am in agreement. Is that fawning? Or is it simply setting flexible boundaries?

*

“That’s not what I meant!” Sarah said a little too loudly for the muted conversations elsewhere in the restaurant. “Why do you always try to repeat my words back to me like an echo?”

I shrugged innocently and mounted a defensive smile. “I just wanted to be sure I heard you correctly.”

She sighed angrily, and a little too loudly. The couple in the table next to ours both turned to look at us. The man’s partner had a rather smug look on her face, as if I was just another example of a male who never listened between the lines: listened to what was really being said before he offered his opinion.

Sarah noticed of course, sensing an ally; she often draws strength from others if it suits her righteous anger. I suppose she feels she acquires a certain authenticity from the implied approbation of eavesdroppers. Sarah is an anti-fawner –if there is such a word…

When the listening ears at the other table again busied themselves with their wine conversation, Sarah quickly glared at me and then raised her eyebrows as if the evidence had been evaluated in her favour. At least she lowered her criticism of me to a loud whisper. “I said you looked nice tonight… Why did you take that as a criticism?”

“Because you were rolling your eyes, Sar; like you were also crossing your fingers behind your back when you said it.”

“Huh? What in the world does that mean?”

I think I caught her on that one: I love to explain things to her that she doesn’t know. “The practice of hiding crossed fingers behind your back supposedly comes from early Christianity: by forming an X with your fingers -the Greek spelling for Christ- it is asking for forgiveness or protection from sin while lying.” I was proud to pull that one out of a hat.

I thought she’d be mad, but her expression changed as she thought about the nugget I’d offered her.

“I thought crossing fingers was just a way of hoping for something…”

“Only if you cross them openly and in front of you…”

“Huh!” she said as she nodded her head appreciatively.

She really did look impressed, so I reached for her hand across the table as a sign of peace.

“Are you trying to make sure I don’t cross them again…”

I shook my head. “No… I think I’m just acknowledging that you’ve never shared my appreciation of paisley ties…”

Her face bloomed with a beautiful smile and her eyes twinkled. “I didn’t even think paisley came in pinks and greens.”

I shrugged. “I had to hunt for it.”

She reached her other hand over to squeeze mine. I think I diffused the tension, and I noticed the other couple smiling as the woman whispered something to her partner after risking another quick glance at us.

“You are so… charming, G.” Sarah sighed and touched my leg with her foot under the table. “It’s so hard to stay mad at you when you don’t rise to the bait…”

I pretended to be surprised. “You mean bite the hook you were throwing at me…?”

She shook her head and her smile almost took over her entire face. “My turn to teach: rising to the bait sometimes means accepting a criticism that seemed angry but was really meant as a trick, a joke.” She squeezed my hand again, leaned over the table, and kissed me on the cheek.”

I not sure, but I think the other table clapped -softly, though, as befits the deportment in an expensive restaurant.

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gozzter

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