My friend and his young family were recently exposed to a bat in their home. He got the bat out, and everyone was fine, but out of an abundance of caution, my friend, his wife and their two kids, ages 2 and 5, had to endure a series of rabies shots at their local ER.
The kids were naturally freaked out, but by the final round of shots, the 5 year old had the drill down so pat he was dropping trou the moment he got into the room. My friend was so proud.
But here’s the clincher: The busy ER nurse also took the time to administer shots and band-aids to some emotional-support stuffed animals the kids had brought along.
If you know a nurse, are a nurse, or watch “The Pitt,” you have a pretty good idea of how overworked and underappreciated nurses tend to be. They barely get a moment to pee or have a snack, let alone administer shots and band-aids to inanimate objects.
The nurse did more that day than give a family rabies shots. She took the time to be present. To see that, for a 5 year old, a teddy bear was part of the experience. It was a small gesture. But one that kid will likely not forget.
When I first lived in Paris in 2011 for my then-husband’s job, I felt like a fish out of water. Every experience — even going to the laundromat or grocery store — felt different and intimidating. I would go to the Starbucks around the corner from our flat to feel a little more like I was home. One day, I went in and the barista asked, Ton habitude? or “Your usual?” What felt amazing wasn’t just that I understood what she asked, but that she actually remembered me. For the first time living in a foreign country, I felt seen.
We’ve all been there. The hairdresser who notices you’re having a rough day. The guy in the pickup truck who stops and gives you a thumbs up when you’re trying to cross the street on your bike. The older gent in the grocery store parking lot who offers to return your cart.
Last weekend, my friend was at the ticket window at Deer Valley trying to get her season bike pass squared away, but the cashier was having trouble getting her card to go through. A stranger on line behind her took notice and offered to pay for the pass, saying, “You can just Venmo me.”
As a woman of a certain age, I find myself thinking a lot about what it means to feel seen. Maybe it’s just part of getting older, but I’ve definitely had moments of feeling more invisible than I once did. I guess there comes a point where you realize you’re not the main character in every scene. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking of all the other people who move through the world feeling the same way.
We all encounter all kinds of people on any given day. The nail tech who barely speaks English. The teacher. The vendor sitting in an empty tent at Silly Market. The receptionist. The store clerk. The woman jogging with her dog in Round Valley.
Sometimes, they look up. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you put your iPhone in your pocket. Sometimes you don’t. It’s amazing how often we coexist without acknowledgement. Not out of cruelty. But just because we’re busy, distracted, uncomfortable. Lost in our own little world.
The other day, I was riding my bike to the gym and I spotted a guy walking ahead of me with his dog off leash. I called out “Coming up on your left!” Maybe the guy had earbuds in or something, but the dog started wandering into my path and the guy just kept walking. I stopped short, yelling “F—!”
The guy yelled after me, “You don’t have to swear at me!” I stopped my bike about 100 yards away and looked back and yelled, “I was just trying not to hit your dog!”
We both stood there for a moment, the distance between us suddenly seeming smaller. “I’m sorry,” the guy called out. “Me too, I hope you have a good day,” I called back. The words weren’t the point. It was the fact that we stopped seeing each other as obstacles and started seeing each other as people.
Which brings me back to that nurse in the ER. The one who took note of what mattered to a 5 year old. Or the Starbucks barista who saw a lonely American trying to find her way in a new place. The stranger at Deer Valley who noticed someone having trouble at the ticket window. For a brief moment, each of them looked up from whatever else was going on and acknowledged another human being.
Maybe that’s why these moments stick with us. Not because they’re extraordinary, but because someone stopped long enough to notice we were here.