The recent controversy surrounding Oscar Pistorious has sparked a
train of thought in me about people, and what strange creatures we
are. I posted something on Facebook that I thought was totally
innocuous, but the resultant furore caused my Facebook "hits" to soar
to more than 20000 in a week. I could view that as a social media
success story. Instead it has boggled my mind at the weirdness of
humanity. The comments I made are there for public scrutiny so I won't
bother to repeat them here. Briefly, I pointed out that I had
prejudged the tragedy of Oscar having shot dead his beautiful fiancée,
Reeva Steenkamp, in the early hours of Valentine's Day. I had
prejudged him to be guilty until I spoke to my physiotherapist who
specialises in treating stroke patients and disabled people. She and I
have had many, many hours of interesting conversations as she works on
my back and neck, making me more mobile and pain free in the process.
She pointed out to me that disabled people suffer from fear that we
able-bodied people are unaware of. She is an excellent physiotherapist
with a master's degree. Her thesis was on rehabilitating stroke
patients. She is a very caring person who chats to her patients and
gets to know them. They confide in her as she works on their broken or
restricted bodies. She speaks as an expert in her field. In discussing
"THE OSCAR CASE" as it is now being called, where ordinary South
Africans are promoting themselves to the role of judge and jury, (not
that South Africa operates on a jury system), she explained some of
the fears that her patients suffer as a result of their disabilities.
They are terrified of a fire breaking out, or a burglar breaking in.
They stress about being trapped by their bodies' inability to escape.
I remember having a very minor experience of the same sort. I was in
intensive care in Umhlanga Hospital after a spinal operation. I was
unable to move and in excruciating pain. My blood pressure had dropped
so I couldn't be given morphine. An ICU nurse sat at my bedside
monitoring my vital signs. I lay there, wondering why on earth I had
ever subjected myself to having six titanium screws screwed into my
vertebrae, and trying to imagine a time when I would ever walk
normally again, when an earth tremor hit, and I could feel the bed
moving. Charts slid, bottles and drip stands rattled, and my nurse's
dark brown eyes rolled from side to side as she assessed what was
happening. "Earth tremor" and "earthquake" began to be whispered among
the nursing staff. The other ICU patients were comatose, in morphine
induced wonderland. I, the solitary wide awake patient, unable to move
from my bed, wondered if the nurses would all bolt for the door
leaving us to fend for ourselves if a worse tremor hit, or if they
would selflessly cover our bedridden bodies with their own as the
building collapsed upon us all. That single experience springs to mind
as I think of someone permanently disabled living nightly with these
thoughts in crime-infected South Africa.
I didn't intend to start a war. I was not declaring Oscar innocent. I
was not saying that only disabled people feel vulnerable. I was not
negating the suffering of Reeva's family at the tragic death of this
beautiful young woman with her life ahead of her. All I was doing was
mentioning that it was a FACT that people suffering from disabilities
could react differently from our perceived ideas of how "any guy" in
the same situation might act. I was asking people to keep an open mind
until all the facts emerged. I COULD have mentioned something else my
physiotherapist told me. She related the story of an old woman she
treated who suffered from Alzheimer's. Every time the woman was taken
for a bath she cried and showed signs of extreme distress. My friend
puzzled about this until one day she discovered the reason for her
patient's reaction. She would catch sight of herself in a mirror and
get such a fright that she would scream and cry. She had no idea that
she was seeing her own reflection. She didn't want to bath because
lurking in the bathroom was a scary person who leered at her and
frightened her half to death. Judging by the response to my disabled
people posting, this would have produced scathing comments on my
insensitivity to Alzheimer's patients.
Weird! My final story is set in the old Durban airport. Simon, one of
our pastors, had driven me to the airport, dropped me at the entrance,
and gone off to park the car in some distant parking space. The idea
was that I would stand in line to pick up my ticket, then check in, by
which time Simon would arrive with my luggage. As I got closer and
closer to the counter I kept looking anxiously down the passage where
Simon was due to appear. On my tenth or so scrutiny I was suddenly
accosted by a very short, intense man leaning on the handle of his
luggage trolley, staring at me with exaggeratedly wide open eyes and a
bared teeth grimace. I looked at him in utter astonishment, wondering
if he recognized me, and if this was some bizarre greeting ritual. Far
from it. He held eye contact with me for a long, uncomfortable minute,
then shouted at me in a high pitched voice that matched his extremely
short stature. "So, is it NICE to STARE AT PEOPLE?" he demanded. I was
so taken aback that I mumbled something inane, and continued to search
for Simon, but now with some desperation. It then dawned on me that
every time I turned and looked down the passage for Simon, this
aggressive little man imagined that I was staring at him! This was
obviously born out of an extreme case of small man syndrome.
So as I conclude, I cannot help thinking of how grateful I am that I
am going to be judged by God, not man. We, sadly, put the worst
possible interpretation on someone else's behaviour (but never on our
own.) God, on the other hand, knows every motive of our hearts, every
word before it is on our lips, and every intention in our minds. What
an enormous relief to know that I need never try to explain to my
Father that I was just admiring the moon and stars, not worshiping
them. That brings peace to my soul, and to yours too I hope.
God bless, Fiona
train of thought in me about people, and what strange creatures we
are. I posted something on Facebook that I thought was totally
innocuous, but the resultant furore caused my Facebook "hits" to soar
to more than 20000 in a week. I could view that as a social media
success story. Instead it has boggled my mind at the weirdness of
humanity. The comments I made are there for public scrutiny so I won't
bother to repeat them here. Briefly, I pointed out that I had
prejudged the tragedy of Oscar having shot dead his beautiful fiancée,
Reeva Steenkamp, in the early hours of Valentine's Day. I had
prejudged him to be guilty until I spoke to my physiotherapist who
specialises in treating stroke patients and disabled people. She and I
have had many, many hours of interesting conversations as she works on
my back and neck, making me more mobile and pain free in the process.
She pointed out to me that disabled people suffer from fear that we
able-bodied people are unaware of. She is an excellent physiotherapist
with a master's degree. Her thesis was on rehabilitating stroke
patients. She is a very caring person who chats to her patients and
gets to know them. They confide in her as she works on their broken or
restricted bodies. She speaks as an expert in her field. In discussing
"THE OSCAR CASE" as it is now being called, where ordinary South
Africans are promoting themselves to the role of judge and jury, (not
that South Africa operates on a jury system), she explained some of
the fears that her patients suffer as a result of their disabilities.
They are terrified of a fire breaking out, or a burglar breaking in.
They stress about being trapped by their bodies' inability to escape.
I remember having a very minor experience of the same sort. I was in
intensive care in Umhlanga Hospital after a spinal operation. I was
unable to move and in excruciating pain. My blood pressure had dropped
so I couldn't be given morphine. An ICU nurse sat at my bedside
monitoring my vital signs. I lay there, wondering why on earth I had
ever subjected myself to having six titanium screws screwed into my
vertebrae, and trying to imagine a time when I would ever walk
normally again, when an earth tremor hit, and I could feel the bed
moving. Charts slid, bottles and drip stands rattled, and my nurse's
dark brown eyes rolled from side to side as she assessed what was
happening. "Earth tremor" and "earthquake" began to be whispered among
the nursing staff. The other ICU patients were comatose, in morphine
induced wonderland. I, the solitary wide awake patient, unable to move
from my bed, wondered if the nurses would all bolt for the door
leaving us to fend for ourselves if a worse tremor hit, or if they
would selflessly cover our bedridden bodies with their own as the
building collapsed upon us all. That single experience springs to mind
as I think of someone permanently disabled living nightly with these
thoughts in crime-infected South Africa.
I didn't intend to start a war. I was not declaring Oscar innocent. I
was not saying that only disabled people feel vulnerable. I was not
negating the suffering of Reeva's family at the tragic death of this
beautiful young woman with her life ahead of her. All I was doing was
mentioning that it was a FACT that people suffering from disabilities
could react differently from our perceived ideas of how "any guy" in
the same situation might act. I was asking people to keep an open mind
until all the facts emerged. I COULD have mentioned something else my
physiotherapist told me. She related the story of an old woman she
treated who suffered from Alzheimer's. Every time the woman was taken
for a bath she cried and showed signs of extreme distress. My friend
puzzled about this until one day she discovered the reason for her
patient's reaction. She would catch sight of herself in a mirror and
get such a fright that she would scream and cry. She had no idea that
she was seeing her own reflection. She didn't want to bath because
lurking in the bathroom was a scary person who leered at her and
frightened her half to death. Judging by the response to my disabled
people posting, this would have produced scathing comments on my
insensitivity to Alzheimer's patients.
Weird! My final story is set in the old Durban airport. Simon, one of
our pastors, had driven me to the airport, dropped me at the entrance,
and gone off to park the car in some distant parking space. The idea
was that I would stand in line to pick up my ticket, then check in, by
which time Simon would arrive with my luggage. As I got closer and
closer to the counter I kept looking anxiously down the passage where
Simon was due to appear. On my tenth or so scrutiny I was suddenly
accosted by a very short, intense man leaning on the handle of his
luggage trolley, staring at me with exaggeratedly wide open eyes and a
bared teeth grimace. I looked at him in utter astonishment, wondering
if he recognized me, and if this was some bizarre greeting ritual. Far
from it. He held eye contact with me for a long, uncomfortable minute,
then shouted at me in a high pitched voice that matched his extremely
short stature. "So, is it NICE to STARE AT PEOPLE?" he demanded. I was
so taken aback that I mumbled something inane, and continued to search
for Simon, but now with some desperation. It then dawned on me that
every time I turned and looked down the passage for Simon, this
aggressive little man imagined that I was staring at him! This was
obviously born out of an extreme case of small man syndrome.
So as I conclude, I cannot help thinking of how grateful I am that I
am going to be judged by God, not man. We, sadly, put the worst
possible interpretation on someone else's behaviour (but never on our
own.) God, on the other hand, knows every motive of our hearts, every
word before it is on our lips, and every intention in our minds. What
an enormous relief to know that I need never try to explain to my
Father that I was just admiring the moon and stars, not worshiping
them. That brings peace to my soul, and to yours too I hope.
God bless, Fiona
Agreed. God is the only perfect judge.
ReplyDeleteYou have reminded me of something I read in a book about design, of all things, that illustrated an aspect of human nature that I often find myself recognising (sometimes in myself as well).
From The Design of Everyday Things by Donald A. Norman:
It seems natural for people to blame their own misfortunes on the environment. It seems equally natural to blame other people’s misfortunes on their personalities. Just the opposite attribution, by the way, is made when things go well. When things go right, people credit their own forceful personalities and intelligence: "I really did a good job today; no wonder we finished the project so well." The onlookers do the reverse. When they see things go well for someone else, they credit the environment: "Joan really was lucky today; she just happened to be standing there when the boss came by, so she got all the credit for the project work. Some people have all the luck."
Loved that blog. Can't believe that guy stared at you. Ja I think we need to put the best construction on the actions of others... Innocent till proven guilty.
ReplyDeleteI have been following this sad incident on your fb page and the news, and I agree with your doctor friend's explanation. I love to read crime novels, watch mini series, and follow news stories. I sometimes get so caught of in these novels of good verse evil that I'm scared out of my wits-but keep reading. Some nights I start a novel and read all night and into the next morning until I finish reading it in a days time. This one particular time, I thought I heard a noise in the empty duplex where we shared a hallway to the front door (the duplex is owned by my parents, and my sister had recently moved out into her own home.) Then I knew I heard another "thump" and scratching in the walls. Our family home was broken into years ago, while we were away, (I never really had forgotten that feeling of walking into the house that day.) So I call my dad, who lives catercorner from where I live, and relay what I'd heard. Well, he tries to calm me down and tell me its probably only the wind, and asks if I had been reading one of those novels again? I tell him "No, I've not, and it's not the wind." So he gets dressed and brings his "bully stick" with him. From my apartment door to the front door is a straight shot. But off to the left is the door to the empty apartment. My dad, whose voice I have heard all my life, is knocking on the front door. I yell out, "who is it?" He responds, "It's your dad! Open up!" Now, this is the crazy part, I don't believe him! He is knocking loudly on the door to save me and telling me to open the door and I won't do it. I hear him outside as I peer out my living room window, where my view is blocked to see who is at my door. Then I'm too afraid to open my apartment door, walk past the empty apartment door to get to the front door, to look through the peephole to see if it really is my dad, whose voice I should know by heart. So he ends up breaking the door in, yelling where I'm at, "It's dad!" It is then that I finally come out my apartment door. Well he's frantic and a little mad, "I told you it was me, why didn't you open the door, you called me, and I told you I was coming right over!" Well I'm frantic too, but relieved, and I tell him, "I didn't believe it was you, I thought it was someone trying to trick me into opening the door!" Long story short, it really was the wind. Now, when I decide to read a scary good verse evil crime novel, I lock my new deadbolt, and double check my lock first on my new metal door. That old door never did work afterwards. Years later I told him I thought I needed a gun for protection, and he told me he thought that was not a good idea. If I did, I should call 911 instead of him, they were better trained to deal with fear like mine. We laugh at this now, but after that first robbery, my mom and my sister and I were pretty shaken up. I was the first to notice something was wrong when we walked in the door. My dad was at work. All I said was, "Mom...?" and all she said was, "Get out of the house!" I can see how this could happen in this case. I'm not saying he is innocent or guily. But I do understand the intensified fear, the need to think and act quickly, the paralysing fear the second time, and how your mind can play tricks on you.
ReplyDelete