I stepped in poison ivy yesterday, and now I have a skull-shaped red patch on my instep. I really think Judy could have been more sympathetic, but she just looked and uttered a flat, "Oh." Then - - nothing.
How hard would it have been to expand a bit, like "Ooo, that looks sore. Does it hurt much?'
But no, she just moved her attention back to The Girl Who Played With Fire. The sore patch on my foot may as well have been just some awkward birthmark as this annoying, itching skull of pain. I mean, I love her dearly, but she can be so oblivious to the suffering of others.
Not all others, actually, just mine. I mean she was horrified that time the cat stepped on a rat trap in the stupid neighbor's yard and got its right front paw fairly mashed. And another time a hummingbird slammed into our picture window (as least insofar as a hummingbird can be said to slam into anything) and she ran out and quickly nursed it back to health. But for my poison ivy - - nothing.
I have put off saying anything to her, thinking that perhaps her lack of empathy -- or sympathy (I get those concepts confused) -- may be the result of a defect in her upbringing, or maybe something the nuns said to her in grammar school.
I think if Judy ever gets out of that hospital bed, I'm going to have a talk with her. She is likely using her little diabetes attack as an excuse for focusing on herself rather than those unfortunate ivy-poisoned souls around her. Why else would she get woozy like that in the middle of my vacation? The ambulance ride alone consumed a good part of my day. And you know what I think of hospital cafeteria food.
It's not like this is anything serious: the doctor says she'll be fine in a day or two once they balance her medications. But that's no reason for her to be so cheerful in the presence of real suffering. My poison ivy skull is going to be there long after she's up and around.
Maybe I'll buy myself a get-well card. That'll show her.