Ripples of Kindness
And how a rubbish week was righted
Last week concluded on a rough note. A medication I’ve come to rely on for quality of life came to an end. Further funding approval was needed, and I was given the shattering news that I may have to endure months of savage symptoms before returning to it.
My immediate response was textbook Amy. Cry, walk, despair, yoga, anger, extra hot mocha, acceptance, and back to the business of living by the following morning.
Knocks like this don’t get any easier with age or experience. Like an axe striking the trunk of an old oak, it’s resolve will sustain a handful of blows, but keep hacking long enough, and the structural integrity will be compromised. Eventually, it may topple. And just like a support stake holding a tree in place, we all need external tools to help get us through the hard parts.
It’s finding these tools and using them that makes bouncing back somewhat quicker with experience. Quicker, not easier.
So, of course, this week had the potential to be vile. I couldn’t move for appointments and medical admin, and a quick glance at my calendar was enough to have me fumbling around for a brown paper bag. But, because I’d employed my tools, I entered Monday with relative levels of calm.
My long-time nemesis, trepidation, warned this week could’ve been a steaming pile of horse manure. However, it seems she was wrong. Already, a handful of lovely interactions have emerged like newly shooting Snowdrops, proving all along, the foundation was soil. No manure in sight.
Not one to flog a dead metaphor, I’ll keep it literal from here on in.
People were kind to me, and I want to talk about it.
My first encounter was with a psychological wellbeing practitioner. After years of accumulating untreated trauma, this year, I finally took the decision to take better care of my mental health. For me, this looked like speaking to my GP, and seeking help from a specialist service. The first step was a telephone assessment to establish my struggles and needs.
Now, I won’t lie to you, I wasn’t excited for this. The thought of relaying my most harrowing flashbacks, alongside the muscle memory of past gaslighting left me with shaky hands and a dry mouth. So, I armoured up with a notepad, a list, and a readiness to fight.
But within minutes of introduction, I knew I was safe. My shoulders dropped. My fists unclenched. The man on the phone was thoughtful. He approached each question with sensitivity, employed humour in all the right places, and listened with understanding as I relayed my story. We spoke for an hour.
I expected to spend the rest of the day in a gloomy bubble, binging Netflix from bed, and neglecting my poor, sweet manuscript. But, alas, I did not.
A kind approach by one person transformed an experience that could’ve been miserable, into one that felt hopeful. Hanging up the phone, I knew I’d be fine, and by the afternoon, I was back at my desk, working. Exactly where I should be.
The following day contained similar anxieties. It began by phoning one of my specialist teams for news of my medication funding approval.
Fabulous news: it was approved.
Less fabulous news: I could be waiting over three months to access it.
Nightmare. Total, utter nightmare.
Begging was not beneath me. I offered to wait hours outside the clinic for a free window, explained the repercussions of me being away from treatment too long, the severity of the impact on my body. The nurse was apologetic, understanding. She explained that the back-logged clinic didn’t have an inch of wiggle room to squeeze me in. Staffing and time constraints were to blame. I was added to the cancellation list, fifth in line, and warned about the likelihood of getting a call-up.
A previous version of me might have sobbed on the phone, unleashed my anger at this nice woman who was doing all she could and working under a system designed to crumble. But instead, I thanked her. I explained that I didn’t blame her, and couldn’t imagine having to work under such pressure with so little help.
Then, I hung up the phone and cried. Of course, I understood. But on a personal level, it sucked. I’d be right at the back of the list for a treatment I know helps me, and had already been self-injecting for six months. The bureaucracy was infuriating, and my body was inflamed.
Cue: karma, the universe, my guardian fucking angel.
She called me back. The lovely nurse phoned me back.
“You know what?” she said. “I’m going to fit you in next week. You might have to wait a little, but I’m going to fit you in.”
“Oh my lord, you are an actual angel sent from heaven, thank you so much, I love you, I will bring you chocolate, so much chocolate, I promise – “
“You don’t have to bring me chocolate.”
“I WILL BRING YOU CHOCOLATE.”
So, suddenly my miracle drugs are two weeks away, rather than three months. There’s no question - this is purely down to kindness. The lovely nurse had no obligation to fit me into her oversubscribed clinic she was running alone. But she empathised with me, and wanted to help.
This, followed by a nearly two-hour physio appointment in the afternoon, which positively flooded my kindness bucket for the month.
My gosh, this woman radiated empathy, approached me from every angle, and sent me away with a holistic plan tailored to my exact needs. You may not understand how vital this is for a complex patient, and just how rare it is in practice. I swear to God, it’s like finding treasure.
Some of my history, medically speaking, has led to me expect little from people. I know that. I’m working on it. That being said, I never want to dampen the surprise of kindness, or take it for granted. I never want to overlook the gorgeous glow of humanity in action, the reminder that people are truly more compassionate than they are not, the generosity of spirit that pushes me to pay it forward.
Ultimately, kindness ripples. And I just love that.