I was sitting at Robyn’s kitchen table. We were talking with one of her granddaughters, Sarah, who was regaling us with the highlights of a just-completed trip with her long-time boyfriend, Paul. She mentioned in passing that while they were gone, Paul’s mother, having experienced a pain in her back during the prior month, had undergone a scan, revealing widespread bone cancer. Sarah added that Paul’s mom previously had experienced several different forms of cancer, despite being relatively young in her fifties.
My ears perked, and I immediately thought of Lee, who likewise had fought cancer in several forms before pancreatic cancer finally took her life. Lee also died young, but based on what Sarah told us, I concluded Paul’s mom was going to die even younger.
The conversation shifted to the large birthday party for Robyn’s son’s fiancé that we were all scheduled to attend in a couple of days. Sarah wasn’t sure if Paul would attend because of his mother’s medical diagnosis.
He did, and I was glad to see him. I expressed my sympathy; Paul merely replied that his mother would soon begin a regimen of chemotherapy and radiation. I was nonplused by his seeming nonchalance, but carefully avoided speculating about any prognosis, which, based on my own experiences with Lee, I assume is dire.
***
Also, since then I have been thinking about my emotional reaction to the news regarding Paul’s mother. Candidly, it was bland.
A note appearing in Psychology Today (see https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/empathy (4/22/26)) defines “empathy [as] the ability to recognize, understand, and share the thoughts and feelings of another person, animal, or fictional character.” My reaction therefore did not surprise me, as, unlike Lee, who was a true empath- indeed, she was one of the kindest people I’ve known- I would not describe myself as empathetic.
Instead, what surprised me was an admittedly subjective test, part of the same article, whose results classified me as moderately empathetic. Interestingly, the article suggests that helping others, such as by volunteering and charity work, can increase one’s empathy.
As some readers here might recall, I used to volunteer at a local food pantry but eventually had to stop because I found the work stultifying, while too many of our clients had an undeserved sense of entitlement.
Of course, for several years I have been Zoey’s volunteer tutor, and I plan to continue providing this service during the upcoming academic year while she prepares to graduate from grammar school. What comes after, who knows?
I suppose these facts might support the conclusion that I am moderately empathetic. But there are different types of empathy, so what kind am I? With one exception, I am hard-pressed to answer this question.
This exception applies to times when I get angry because someone has hurt another person. For example, I would flash with anger if anyone dared mistreat Lee. Most times, it was Lee’s brother, Paul, who inadvertently stepped on her feelings from time to time. Yet, for a time I held it against him.
My attitude changed after Lee died, when I saw how much Paul had loved his sister. And over time, I came to realize that having empathy is not always a positive trait.
