The definitions of empathy, sympathy and compassion used to be a little unclear to me. Not anymore. I’ve had some recent first-hand experiences to set me straight.

My husband fell off Snoopy, his motorcross bike, a few weeks ago. Sustained a number of injuries. Nothing too serious. Not like the ankle bone he broke last year, another motorcross mishap. That took a good three months to recover. This time the bruises seemed innocuous. Nothing that appeared to require urgent medical attention. Except maybe for the bump and marks on the arm, particularly around the bicep.

The next morning, the bicep area had developed a respectable shiner. It looked rather menacing. There was pain. Movement was limited. Thereafter, my husband couldn’t lift his left arm above his head or reach to touch his right arm. He couldn’t unpeel his t-shirts without difficulty. He had to slowly manoeuvre his arm into his long sleeve work shirts. No more quick showers. Getting to and cleaning body parts located away from the upper arm required effort. A belly sleeper, he lost many hours of shut-eye, over many nights. He still can’t seem to get perfectly comfortable. Mornings were the more difficult. The arm needed some exercise before it became useful. I felt his pain. I was sympathetic to his distress. Thankfully, he’s since made considerable progress. Enough to ride his road bikes on weekends.

I injured my wrist a week or so after he did his tumble on the tracks. Mine wasn’t quite as adventurous or extreme. It was from mundane house work. I strained my tendon from overzealously brushing my mum’s bathroom floor. Repetitive motion. We haven’t had a cleaner since March. That’s eight very long months of repeated motions. I did seek professional help. I didn’t expect empathy but… My doctor recalled how she had the same problem – wrist tenosynovitis – from carrying and pumping milk for her new born, who is six months old now. It will go with rest and targeted wrist exercises, she assured me. And, suggested painkillers, in the interim.

I can do most things, albeit slowly and thoughtfully. I have full flexibility of my left wrist bar some upward and bending movements of my thumb. I can still do my morning aerobic exercises. But, no weights. No push ups. No left side plank crunches. I can remove my t-shirt with a wiggle. My bra by bringing it to the front to unclasp the hook. No quick showers and hair washes. Shampooing and conditioning used to be on auto-pilot as was soaping my back. I cannot pick up my mobile or mug with my left hand. Nor push down or lift up door handles. Everyday activities now require both hands. A sharp twinge reminds me to stop any action that borders on the vigorous, particularly lifting, cleaning or chopping.  

Despite all these, my husband and I are getting on merrily well. Naturally, we empathize and sympathize with each other. We understand exactly what the other is saying and going through. We feel each other’s pain, quite literally. Certain small and benign movements continue to be awkward, uncomfortable and at times, painful. We exchange sympathetic looks and empathetic groans when the other forgets, performs a silly action and suffers a stabbing pain. Ouch. Funnily, our current state reminded me of one of my fellow migraine sufferers. She said her husband, who has never had a headache in his lifetime (is that even possible?), could not understand what a migraine felt like. She confided that during many of her migraine episodes, she has felt like treating him to several bad headaches or immense pain to trigger empathy. Ouch.

With my husband’s left bicep and my left wrist, somewhat out of action, we strategized. We worked out how to maximize our two good right arms and hands. And, help each other when and where needed. I help peel his t-shirt off his back. He brings in the laundry. I put it out as he is unable to hang the heavier bedsheets and towels on the clothesline. The arm doesn’t cooperate beyond a certain height. My husband does all the heavy lifting. More so now as my left wrist is on strike. He carries all our shopping. We recognized each other’s suffering. Took action by devising a game plan to help each other out. And, that’s compassion.  

The good news is both the bicep and wrist are healing. Slowly but surely. The definitions of empathy, sympathy and compassion are very clear to me.