Lately there has been a lot of whining going on at my house. My daughter complains about too much homework, the pressure to excel and too little time. I complain about too much housework, trying to get by, too little time and so on.
But when the voice that whines the most starts to be my own, I begin to hear another voice in my head, that of Pam, a former neighbor. Then I quiet down and start heeding her words, spoken so long ago.
Pam was the mother of three daughters and her home was the hub of our new housing development. When we were bored, depressed, lonely or all three-which as young mothers with small children occurred frequently-we just headed for Pam’s to share our tales of woe.
The strange thing was, we rarely got to talk to Pam. She was always fixing lemonade or making the crowd sandwiches in between it all or dealing with her kids and sometimes ours.
While it was great to have someone make me a sandwich for a change, and these sessions helped relieve the stress, there was a down side. Since griping was the name of the game, a lot of listening was required before I could express any. Then when it was my turn, most times my story was promptly topped by someone else’s. And even on the occasions when I won the “life dealt me a bad hand” contest, I felt like the loser.
Still, I kept going back. I didn’t believe I had any choice, until one day, miraculously, I happened to catch Pam alone-Pam who always seemed to sympathize with everyone. I chose as my complaint of the day something someone close to me was always doing that was driving me crazy. Pam listened patiently and then, as she handed me my sandwich, she looked me in the eyes and asked me how I had resolved my problem.
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t understand, couldn’t even take the plate she was presenting. Didn’t she realize that if I had resolved it I wouldn’t be complaining? I finally muttered, “I haven’t.”
“Then how do you intend to?” she persisted. “Because if this is making you so miserable, you probably have some idea of how to improve the situation.”
With lunch Pam had given me food for thought. It was the first time I realized that while others may be behaving in ways you’d prefer they didn’t, how much you let it affect you and what you do about it are the only things in your control. I suddenly saw complaining not as an end in itself, but as a way to identify a problem and then plot its solution.
My visits to Pam’s house became less frequent after that. Not only did I find less need, but I found less time for them. Once I got down to the business of improving my lot in life to the best of my ability, I discovered quite a few pastimes gave me more satisfaction than complaining.
Pam eventually moved to another suburb. She said it was to shorten her husband’s commute to work. My husband speculated it was to escape the problems of her adoring neighbors. In either case, we lost touch.
One day several years later, I saw her again. She was on Oprah’s show, on a segment called “Girl Talk” or some such.
“Leave it to Pam,” I chuckled to myself as I watched her chatting with Oprah on national TV, surrounded by girlfriends on her back-yard deck.
But my smile faded as the conversation turned serious. It seemed that the girlfriends were all cancer survivors, and Pam herself had undergone a mastectomy. She talked about the ordeal, the recovery, her support group and about putting in perspective what was important in her life.
“Leave it to Pam,” I repeated, but with no amusement, only admiration for a woman who I had known, even in simpler times, was remarkable.
I think about the show and Pam’s courage when I feel I’m slipping into my old ways. I never thanked her for being straight with me instead of simply sympathizing and thereby encouraging my self-pity. I hope someday my daughter will meet a Pam who will do the same for her, because such advice cannot come from a mother. I know, because mine offered me the same advice years before Pam did, and I took it as a rebuke. I doubt that Pam remembers the incident. She may not even remember me. But she is frequently in my prayers, and always a part of my perspective.
