Today, Big Al flexed his muscles.
Sunday morning is church morning.
We flew into mass late with wild hairdos and odd clothes. Felix’s taupe trousers were ever so slightly too short, and made rather too much of yesterday’s socks which had been hastily rescued from the washing pile in an emergency.
We were there with a mission. There was no Grandma and Grandpa here today: and so I had been put on duty. I was to help my sister with her three-year-old blonde bombshell, Big Al.
Which is harder than it seems.
One day, I have a feeling Big Al could make it to the professional rugby field. He is perfectly proportioned, but packed with muscle. When he is in one’s arms one has the unsettling feeling that one is dealing with the elemental powers of matter.
Tugged this way, yanked that, and with almost uncontainable power, I believe if I ever entered a black hole, I might have the faintest familiar sensation of homecoming.
Then there is the Don’t Shout Campaign. Our church is hushed and venerable, with a priest who clearly feels children should be seen and not heard.
Al has come on in leaps and bounds since those heady days when he used to bawl: “Hello, Father!” at the top of his voice from his pew.
And the majority of the time, he has learnt how to whisper so that the business of ritual and pomp can carry on alongside his engrossing play.
Every now and then, as befits a three year old, that merry little spirit becomes uncontainable.
And he shouts once more.
Today I was singing happily away, while Al, in my arms, was hollering something completely different, concerning Harold The Helicopter, over the top.
I said, Al, sing what I am singing.
The perfect pitch and glorious tone that emerged was stunning: I will say, however, that he is very similar to me when I sing. He stands out.
Nevertheless it was the final hymn, deliverance was near, we were all perking up a bit. Soon we would be out into the sunshine and the day would be ours. He and I sang obtrusively through to the very last syllable.
And then, in caveman-like triumph, he took Harold – a not inconsiderably heavy lump of plastic toy helicopter – and coshed Felix on the head with it.
Felix was admirable. He was immediately shocked, but very quickly his sense of humour overtook the bump on his head as a priority, and he began to laugh.
Big Al was delighted. This was a splendid outcome. And as I write, I remember with dismay that I completely forgot to admonish Al for his misdoings. Oh, dear.
Al is a fabulous little boy. In many ways he is truly extraordinary. But he is not yet at that developmental stage where empathy comes easily.
To him, his misdemeanour was simply an exuberant flourish at the end of a really good song. He is unable to put himself in Felix’s place and realise that sometimes exuberant flourishes can be quite painful.
It will come, in time, because he is just that kind of boy. But right now, he’s in learning mode.
A little while ago I was listening to a programme on our talk channel, BBC Radio Four.
I was tuned into Desert Island Discs. The idea is, you say to some celebrity: you’re stranded on a desert island. What eight pieces of music would you choose to take with you?
A short while ago, the guest was Dr Gwen Adshead, the consultant forensic psychotherapist at the British high security hospital, Broadmoor.
It is well worth the listen, because this woman has helped treat some of the most dangerous men of our time, most of them with a complete and chilling lack of empathy for their fellow humans.
She tells presenter Kirsty Young that she would never let herself become too personally involved in the progress of these people. Because they are predatory.
But when she is asked, is she afraid when she treats her patients, she replies that she is not: rather, she is sad.
Because she argues these people are, as King Lear says, “ruined pieces of nature”. They are survivors of their own disaster. They were once little boys, they lived their own lives outside the forbidding red walls of the hospital.
Some of the patients she treated are the most extreme examples of what happens when a life is lived, devoid of empathy.
The outcome is sadly, irrevocably extreme.
But could there be times when a much less extreme lack of empathy can work in society? Is there a place for the Thick-Skinned?
I read Gone With The Wind before I watched the film, and I’m so glad I did. Because it is in the book that Scarlett’s bafflement with the whole business of empathy is made crystal clear.
She is not an academic or an empathiser. She can see nothing other than her path through the world and how she will carve her way.
She cannot identify with servants, with slaves, with the men who try so hard to control her: she cannot even put herself in the place of that wonderful hearted woman who is married to the man she wants and has always wanted.
She is hard and ruthless.
When the time comes for her to take tough action, she has no compunction in doing so, even to the point of taking life, in order to defend Tara.
And were it not for whatever it is she has, all those empathisers- Melly, her child, servants and her father- would have been killed.
I’m not sure any of us like her. Some of us admire her never-say-die attitude to her life and what is hers. She has an impenetrable hide. And yet at that time, in that place, there is a need for her single-minded self-centredness.
It takes all sorts to make a world. Just imagine a continuum, from absolute empathy to no empathy at all.
There are those who are so dangerous, their paths are locked away from us: those who are gifted with a thick skin so they can fulfil their vocation: and then there are the empathisers, the ones whose job it is to know, and share, how others feel.
I have a thin skin. I choose that skin, day in, day out. And it’s what I teach those around me.
That’s my vocation.
The featured episode of Desert Island Discs is at
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/b00syzlf/Desert_Island_Discs_Dr_Gwen_Adshead
Kate Shrewsday 
Great post and definitely something to think about. I find myself turning empathy on and off, going between being thick-skinned and thin-skinned. The trick, I think, is to know when to go which way and how far to turn it on and off. That is something I have not yet learned…
You know, Zoe, it is funny you should say that. I was thinking about the Doctor and how she must have to turn empathy right off at times when she is working. But I ran out of words….I already make you read more than 1000 a day….
Thanks for reading:-)
Your Al should team up with my Heleyna- now that would make Mass interesting!!! She sang the Scooby Doo theme song full blast as the closing hymn a few weeks back. Can’t remember what the rest of us were singing.
Then today she began loudly, but in tune(ish) to sing all the hymns in a old-lady-tremulous voice which she had heard from the lady behind who happens to be the wife of the head of the school I pulled my son out of to home educate!!! ARRGH!
Wish I’d heard the BBC programme. I have worked with a couple of ex-Broadmoor patients in my time. Very sad cases. Lack of empathy was a big factor I think- although in one case a deep deep seated delusion was the root of his terrible crime.
I’ve never nursed anyone that mentally ill who had a normal happy childhood. Abuse lurked in all their pasts. We make our monsters I think. Sad.
Another ‘thank God’ moment, Mum6kids:-) Always nice to know yours isn’t the first, and will not be the last, to get carried away with the whole extemporise-during-the-last-hymn thing.
If you follow the link at the bottom it should take you to iplayer, and the programme in question. This is a very wise lady indeed. I guess she would have to be.
Thanks for popping in!
Great post, Kate, and thought-provoking about a complex topic, thank you.
Big Al sounds like a whirlwind delight 😀 As for singing, I’ll leave that to the two of you!
He is indeed both a whirlwind and a delight, Naomi! But I needed a rest after church. Sitting down to look at your mother’s garden over coffee helped…
You really capture the essence big al so beautifully Kate. He was in a particularly exuberant mood this morning, wasn’t he! Full on though he is, he is also a delight.
I agree with mum6kids that we make our own monsters. I think if children are surrounded by love and support, along with a big dollop of firm guidence, I think they generally can’t go far wrong. It’s just so sad that there are kids out there who will never experience that. Great blogg tonight. X
Cheers Libs. As Naomi says, its a complex subject….have a listen to the programme if you have time, it is quite profound. Damage can be done before one can speak. I teach empathy as part of my social skills curriculum and even at eight and nine, so many habits are set. My heart aches for those for whom it could be very late in the day.
Well, I’m with Al on the singing front. They used to ask me to shut up at junior school!
I don’t believe you can ‘turn the empathy off’ – but I do feel less instinctive empathy with some patients than others. That usually makes me question why. And sometimes digging a little deeper is what makes the difference.
If for example a patient is crotchety, I tend to think, on an instinctive level:
“What have I done to upset her?”
But usually digging deeper reveals another more pertinent reason, which is far more to the point.
Thanks Pseu, sounds like you have a wealth of experience in this area. Fabulous comment.
When I started this piece I never looked at the definition of empathy. My old fluppy dictionary says it is the power to project one’s personality into, and so fully comprehend, the object of contemplation.
That projection is usually a plus: just as you say, you dig deeper to fully comprehend how the other is feeling. But having listened to the programme I was left with a conviction that sometimes projecting too deeply into the character of a predator would be a dangerous exercise. Self preservation demands that our usual act of projection is limited. Fascinating subject, but unsettling.
I suppose I don’t generally consider a patient as a predator….
Fair point:-) Just Dr Adshead’s take on things…
Yay love it, as normal …..
Good to have you back Jules x
Great post. One of my friends has a whirlwind grandson, but delightful with it.
Being empathic took me away from nursing. I could not stop putting myself, too much, into a patient’s shoes.
The wonderful thing about whirlwind grandsons is that one can be with them, and then they go back home…. Thanks Liz:-)
I’m not altogether sure I’d have coped with a boy, Al is charming though.
As for Scarlett, I’ve always thought her a lot like Becky Sharp?
Have a super week, Kate.
Keep the Concorde flying proud 😉
You are amazing, Cindy, she is: and Becky was the first one I thought of for this post. But for variety’s sake, Scarlett did nicely. Both have the hide of a rhino.
And rest assured, Concorde will sail as ever, stately, on:-D
I keep meaning to tell you I like the new photographs, though I don’t think I want to know what sits in the centre of the circular one.
We keep well away from spiders here, particularly those with the red dot in their backs.
Always rather a lot of our friends in the forest, Liz:-) Thanks- sometimes I’m up there and I just long for other people to see what I see…