In isolation, one's sorrow becomes unbearable, partly because one feels singled out for pain and wrongly presumes that others are just fine. For that particular moment, such an assumption may be correct, but across the life span no one is immune from the vicissitudes of living. In fact, living is defined not only by its pleasures but by its sorrows: They are the fundamental elements of being in the world. We all lose our loved ones, get sick and, ultimately and definitely, we all die.
The loss of one's hair is not the same as the loss of one's job, and that, in turn, is not compatable to the loss of a loved one. Yet for some, not being invited to a party can be as painful as having an illness. Of course, when they are sick, these same people begin to think how foolish it was to have felt so much pain about such trivial matters. Ironically, the brain doesn't differentiate among negative stimuli. Wrinkles in one's neck may be as disturbing as the loss of one's eyesight before the latter occurs. The massacre and mass burial of thousands of Albanians may not cause someone to lose as much sleep as his own impending prostate biopsy. It is always worse if it is happening to you.
There is a lighthearted story of a man who cites to his rabbi all the bad things that had happened to him: His wife left, he was fired from his job, his kids are in trouble, his health is failing. The rabbi says, "It could have been worse." The man puzzled asks, "How? Rabbi, after all this! How could it have been worse?" The rabbi nonchalantly replies, "It could have happened to me!"
In contrast to isolation, emotional engagement with one's fellow beings makes one a part of the community and allows one to experience commonality of sorrows and pleasures. The sense of belonging dilutes self-directed preoccupation and deintensifies self-pity. It also allows for experiencing others' sorrow. Although his commonality may sound like compounding the problem, in fact it helps to transcend one's own pain by providing an alternative meaning to suffering.
An old Chinese tale tells of a mother whose only son died. In her grief she went to a holy master and asked for a magical incantation or potion to bring her son back to life. The master advised her to go around and look for a home that has never known sorrow. But wherever she went, whether hovels or palaces, she found one story after another of sadness and misfortune. Ultimately, she became so involved in listening and ministering to other people's grief that her own sorrow was driven out of her life.
T. Byram Karasu, MD is the author of The Art of Serenity
