The opposite of not caring
Baxter gave us a scare a couple of days ago. He skipped dinner on Sunday evening. He didn't eat his breakfast on Monday morning. When he turned his nose up to peanut butter I knew something wasn't right.
When he threw up what looked like blood on the kitchen floor, I jumped in the car to get him to the vet's office.
While I was waiting for them to check him out, I started to send a text to my people to let them know what was happening, but I paused.
It felt like I would be inviting them into my uncertainty a bit prematurely. It felt like inviting questions I couldn't answer and setting them up to wait for a resolution I might not be able to provide -- in the middle of their workday.
I don't think there's a right or wrong decision a person can make in moments like this, but easing up a bit on the sense of urgency seemed like a valid option worth considering.
Instead of reaching out before I had a few facts to share, I dove into one of my go-to mindfulness strategies while waiting for the doctor: tracking the available sensory details, moment by moment.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a snob about contemplative practice. I see zero shame in scrolling through Instagram during moments like these. I'm not trying to maintain monastic levels of composure throughout the day.
I just decided to explore what would happen if I fell back on what has proved paradoxically comforting in the past when waiting for potentially terrible news.
Every few seconds, at a nice leisurely pace, I briefly highlighted one sensory detail without trying to change it.
I heard barks coming from different places in the building.
I saw Baxter breathing calmly at my feet.
I felt the clammy, earthy air in the examination room.
I smelled the familiar vet smell which always makes me wonder how dogs and cats tease out the evidence of each other's fear. Maybe that's just a story humans add as a way of relating to the vulnerable creatures we love so much.
I heard the air conditioner shut off and then listened to the palpable silence left in its absence.
I saw x-rays and tests and surgeries pop up onto my mental screen and gently steered my seeing to the brightly-colored, animal-themed art in front of my eyes.
I heard the tone of fear and then relieved laughter in another pet owner's muffled voice.
I listened as my internal chatter filed through alarming possible explanations. I felt the intensity of my emotional responses wane a bit after deciding not to take the bait of pretending worry is a satisfying subsitute for being in control.
I felt gratitude for my mindfulness practice which gives me accessible places to redirect my attention in moments where the stakes and uncertainty are high.
It was a great reminder of why I stick to the consistency of my mindfulness habits and why I encourage people to work on developing some of their own before they're needed.
It goes against our first impulses. It risks being interpreted as indifference — yet it feels paradoxically like the complete opposite of not caring.
I understand hoping mindfulness might be some magical something that we access by "breaking the glass" in an emergency.
But, it turns out, that's just not how it works.
It's something we can yield to only because we've been paying attention to the moment-by-moment flow of sensations and perceptions when we don't need it to do anything but reveal the richness hiding in plain sight all around us.
In moments like these, sometimes I freak out, and sometimes I feel lucky to that I've been cultivating alternative ways of relating to the inevitable uncertainties and pain of being alive.
The medication they prescribed for an ulcer in Baxter's esophous or stomach seems to be doing the trick. He's been eating every meal since our emergency trip to the vet. He mostly rests as if he doesn't have a care in the world -- until the mail comes or it rains or sometimes when a neighbor walks down the sidewalk in front of our house.
