In her illness narrative, My Stroke of Insight (2008), Jill Bolte Taylor described how at age 37 she experienced a rare form of stroke in the left hemisphere of her brain. As a result, she could not walk, talk, read, write, or recall any of her life, and it took over eight years for her to recover. In the midst of this chaos she needed her visitors to bring her positive energy.

Since conversation was obviously out of the question I appreciated when people came in for just a few minutes, took my hands in theirs, and shared softly and slowly how they were doing, what they were thinking, and how they believed in my ability to recover. It was very difficult for me to cope with people who came in with high anxious energy. I really needed people to take responsibility for the kind of energy they brought me. We encouraged everyone to soften their brow, open their heart, and bring me their love. Extremely nervous, anxious or angry people were counter-productive to my healing.

Similarly, in her illness memoir, The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating (2010), Elisabeth Tova Bailey reflected on the experience of her debilitating illness at age 34 caused by a bacterial infection that paralyzed her, depleted her energy, and rendered her bed-bound for months.  “From where I lay,” she said, “all of life was out of reach.” Still, she said, “when the body is rendered useless, the mind still runs . . .”

“I eagerly awaited visitors,” Bailey said. “They were like golden threads randomly appearing in the monotonous fabric of my days.” Bailey needed her visitors to be present and available to her, physically, emotionally and spiritually. Unfortunately, she said, “I could see that I was a reminder of all they feared: chance, uncertainty, loss, and the sharp edge of mortality.”

Bailey needed her visitors to match the quiet energy of her own attentive stillness. Yet, she observed, “the random way my friends moved around the room astonished me; it was as if they didn’t know what to do with their energy—they were so careless with it, and I found myself preoccupied with their energy level.”

It took time for visitors to settle down. They sat and fidgeted for a while, then slowly relaxed until a calmness finally spread through them. Then they began to talk about more interesting things. But halfway through a visit, they would notice how little I moved, the stillness of my body, and an odd quietness would come over them. Eventually, discomfort moved through my visitors. Their energy would turn into restlessness, and soon my visitors would be off.

Illness narratives like Taylor’s My Stroke of Insight and Bailey’s The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating offer important perspectives not only on what it’s like to be ill, but on what it’s like to receive visitors when you are ill. They turn the tables on the healthy and able-bodied to observe the types of energy they bring, and their capacity, or lack of capacity, to be emotionally and spiritually present. All visitors—friends, family members, volunteers, and clinicians—can learn from this valuable kind of narrative data that illuminates the need for greater emotional intelligence to enhance the quality of therapeutic relationships.

Some questions to reflect on:

• What kind of emotional energy do I carry? How do I know? Have I asked for and/or received any feedback from others about this?
• Am I able to be physically, emotionally, and spiritually available to others?
• What hinders or even blocks me from being more present?

I welcome your comments.

Yours,

Robert