You Might be Right, but It Doesn’t Matter

My mother’s voice came to me in a dream. “David, wake up.”

I lay still, dormant in my sleep state.

Again she said, “David, wake up.”

This time her voice stirred me, and my brain made a slow ascent to consciousness. I remembered where I was and realized something must be wrong.

Only a month ago, mother had returned from working and living in Ghana, West Africa. A swollen spleen had sent her back here. Tests at Vanderbilt Hospital revealed the culprit — non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

Thus began the march of chemotherapy through her bloodstream; that delicate balance of poisoning the body enough to kill the disease but stopping short of killing the patient.

At that moment, we were in the worst stages of chemo. Mama was deathly sick. Pain and nausea medications did the best they could to alleviate her suffering.

My sister, one of my brothers, and I were taking turns holding vigil at her side, feeling powerless to make a difference, but ready to hold her hand.

Mama calls my name again.

I rouse myself from the chair I had been sleeping in. In the dim light of the room, I look at my watch. 2:00 a.m.

“What’s wrong mama?”

“I can’t sleep,” was her weak response.

Standing, I moved toward her bed. Checking the bag on the I.V. pole, I saw it still had fluid in it, and tracing the clear, plastic line to her arm, I saw its steady drip still flowing.

“Why can’t you sleep?”

Raising her head, she said, “These bugs in my bed are driving me crazy.”

I rubbed my eyes (a useless gesture that would do nothing to improve my hearing).

“Say that again? What are you talking about mama?”

With great effort she pushed herself to a sitting position, legs over the side of the bed. Pulling back the covers, she revealed the bottom sheet.

Sweeping her hand above the sheet she told me, “See? Look at them. They’re everywhere.”

Switching on the light over mother’s bed, I saw the sheets were rumpled, but clearly bug-free.

Looking around the room I spy the small trash can. Picking it up, I said, “Then let’s get rid of them.”

I made the motions of picking something off her bed sheet and placing it in the trash can. As I continue this imaginary game, mother joined me, her frail hands picking at the sheets and dropping the “bugs” into the can.

After a few minutes, she stopped and seemed to relax.

I, too, stopped, and asked, “Is that better?”

“Yes, yes. Thank you so much.”

And with that mama laid back on her pillow.

Pulling up the sheet and blanket, I tucked her in, and in moments she was sound asleep.

I’ve told that story of my time with mother scores of times to illustrate this important principle: Sometimes you have to accept another person’s point of view, even if you don’t agree with it.

Were there any bugs in my mother’s bed? Of course not. They were the product of the mixture of chemicals flowing through her veins.

What would have happened if I’d tried to convince her she was wrong? I would have gotten frustrated. She would have become frustrated. I might have said something that hurt her feelings.

And what would have been accomplished? Absolutely nothing.

Oftentimes, in our interactions with people, we need to step back, take a breath, and tell ourselves that just because we have a right to our view doesn’t mean they have to share it.

Others have just as much a right to their view as we do to ours.

People can hear us and understand us, but that doesn’t mean they’ll agree with us.

While there are some situations when there has to be agreement, there are a large number of issues in which it just doesn’t matter.

We need to practice the skill of agreeing to disagree without being disagreeable about it.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume I1: The Hairy Catfish Caper.