Reciprocal care

I spent more than three hours on the telephone today speaking with two students in my role as their mentor. This was a great deal of time, especially at a time when final grades for the semester are almost due. But I don't know how to do the job of mentoring in any way other than this way, and it seemed that the students appreciated what I was doing for them simply because I was taking an interest in their studies and in their lives.

At the end of the second phone call, I felt particularly touched. The student is pursuing a business degree with a focus on international marketing. She came into the college with a master's degree in applied linguistics from a university in Europe and speaks four languages fairly fluently. I proposed to her that we create a capstone (or culminating project) in international business for her, and suggested that while I could supervise the project for her, I also could find someone more familiar with the field. The student responded that she liked the idea of a capstone and wanted to request that she work with me. "I like how we communicate," she said. Those simple words helped make a rather difficult day seem a bit easier.

Later, about 6:15 p.m., I was leaving my office. I knew that I should go to the Y to swim as I had planned but was feeling incredibly tired. I also knew that I was running late and should try and keep my promise of getting home around 7, something that wouldn't happen if I went to the Y. In the end, I convinced myself that I needed to swim, and that I would feel better once I got started. And sure enough, that is what happened. And I didn't get home until nearly 8, much to the anguish of my spouse who suffers regularly from my broken promises to be home when I say I am going to be home.

These stretches of time seem to speak to matters of care. Time spent talking with students to answer their questions, to go over their ideas and aspirations, and to guide them through the many moments of self-doubt that pursuit of a college degree can produce is time siphoned off from other tasks and responsibilities. But it is one way -- perhaps the only way -- that a professor can exhibit care. Similarly, time spent at the Y in the swimming, on the treadmill, or in the weight room is time taken away from the family or perhaps more work. But it might be the best -- if not the only -- way to care for one's self. The dilemma that seems to emerge, however, is one of balance. How does one know when one is experiencing a surplus or deficit of care? Can one care appropriately for others if one doesn't first take care of one's self?

I don't know the answer to any of these questions, but they seem to surround me with an increasing level of frequency. They also seem to focus on a matter of burnout. How does one demonstrate care without experiencing overwhelm or exhaustion?

I remember the weeks after the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center. I had had a spa treatment scheduled and a plan to travel to Maui to backpack at the dormant volcano Haleakala. Two or three days before these treats were scheduled, I experienced a horrible dream where I felt that the perception of a devilish face in the smoke that rose from the Twin Towers rubble that some news service photographs had picked up was staring at me directly. I woke up feeling too frightened to move, even as I knew that I needed to move in order to break the spell of the nightmare. Eventually, I did move and I was able to go back to sleep as normal. Later, I remember feeling guilty for getting the spa treatment and taking the trip to Maui. It didn't seem right to engage in self-indulgence when we were locked into an experience of collective suffering. Ultimately, however, I realized that I would not be able to participate in any process that might help heal the suffering if I did not first heal myself. The spa treatment was relaxing and quite invigorating, and the solo backpacking trip on a very quiet weekend was just what I needed to restore a sense of balance.

I think of these pleasures as I think about suffering now. It seems that they, too, speak to a matter of care. Care can help alleviate suffering; it can heal. But it cannot be effective if the administerer is not honest about her own fears, anxieties, uncertainties and stresses.