In Others' Shoes

Denise is a single parent, and lives in a neighbouring city with her three-year old son who has cerebral palsy. Given her situation, I thought she needed a good source of income. So I insisted to see her.

As Denise let me into her small rented place, I could immediately see what was keeping her hands full. Her kid really needed close watch. Everything that comes naturally easy to other kids his age was generally difficult for Denise’s son.

The boy couldn’t stand for a few seconds without falling, couldn’t even keep his head erect. He’s a nice little boy, but he gets frustrated so easily and goes into tantrums. Every time he tries to do something and fails, he screams endlessly.

While I was there, Denise’s boy went into one of his tantrums. There was no way in the whole world we could get through him. What’s worse, he kicked his mother so hard and tried to bite her.

Studying the boy’s behavior, I guessed he thought that somehow his difficulties were his mother’s fault and that she should be able to do something about it. In her embarrassment, Denise related to me that the boy was always like that, angry at her most of the time.

After about half an hour of pandemonium, the boy finally came still. Perhaps it was the chocolate bar I gave him. I always carry sweets with me since I was diagnosed of having erratic blood-sugar levels.

During the momentary peace, I quickly went ahead to present my business proposal to Denise. I explained to her how the business could help her economically. She was finally receptive of the idea.

We also talked about her son. Denise couldn’t hide her agony. “Every time he goes wild,” she said, “I want to kill myself.” I understood my friend’s burden.

At a corner, the boy was playing with the throw pillows. He was trying to pile them according to size, the large pillows at the bottom and the smaller ones on top. The last pillow he just couldn’t get to stand at the top of the pile and, after much effort, he began to have that certain look on his face.

Noticing the sign of a looming outburst, Denise mumbled in horror, “There he goes again!”

Somehow Denise’s feeling got to me. I ran over to the boy and yelled, “Hold it! Hold it! ... Don’t move!” He was startled. Instantaneously, I remembered a cathartic exercise we had in college. I told Denise to hand me the drawing pad and crayon that littered about. I sat down on the floor with the boy and asked how angry he felt, if he felt as peeved as the sharp zigzag lines I was drawing to him ¾ up and down, up and down.

The little brat nodded, violently grabbing the crayon from my hand, slashing wild lines across the sheet. Then he stabbed the paper over and over again until it was almost in tatters.

I held upward the badly torn sheet and pointed out to him, “Boy, you are really angry!” He snatched the paper from me and, crying furiously, tore it again and again. When he was all finished, and exhausted, he reached for his mother’s hand and pressed it against his little face. “Love mama,” the boy sobbed. 

Denise was dumbfounded. She picked up her boy and kissed and hugged him so tightly, like she’d choke him. The sight was heartwarming.

“This is the first time he’s ever said that,” Denise said, turning to me, tears of joy streaming down her face. I couldn’t hold my own tears, either.

That day I learned an important lesson. The wild boy’s anger was appeased by our empathy. While he was unleashing his fury, slashing and kicking and crying, we were there — watching him, letting him know that even his most angry feelings were understood and accepted.

I believe the world would be much more peaceful and much better, for sure, if everyone learns to put himself in others’ shoes.

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