Therapy has taught me an important sentence: "I can only imagine." It's different from: "I can't imagine."
When you say, "I can only imagine," you are suggesting that you will make the effort to imagine, and this is (possibly) a source of comfort.
My neighbor's girlfriend gave birth and lost nearly all of her blood. It seemed that way. The blood just kept draining from her body, and she almost died. I can only imagine; fortunately, the experience is described in a novel, "Leaving," by Roxana Robinson. That was helpful for me.
My neighbor's mother flew in from Europe, but then she did something terrible to her spine, and she had to stay in a hospital overnight. I can only imagine.
My neighbor's little baby has chronic ear infections. Here, I really can imagine; I can imagine this well. "When my son had an ear infection," I say, "the crying became so intense, he actually made himself puke." My neighbor and I are then silent together, in our vale of troubles and sorrow.
My neighbor appears again. "Everyone in the house has hand, foot, and mouth disease," he says. "We're all contagious, but just until the blisters go away." At this point, I have compassion fatigue. I'm tempted to ask, "Why are you out here, breathing on me?" But I bite my tongue.
Sometimes, I seek solace in Homer Simpson. When his neighbor, Flanders, irritates him, he says, "Can't talk. Robbery. Go hell." It's the "go hell" that makes me smile; adding another syllable, "go to hell," would just be too much work.
I may never feel as free as Homer Simpson, but I can dream. I take little notes in my head, even as I cluck in sympathy. "Covid PLUS a toothache? I can only imagine....."
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