“I’m no Hero”

I finally get what those words mean. I’ve heard them uttered many times by people who had praise heaped on them for something heroic they did. And I’m sure everyone who might read this can relate. Chances are, we’ve all heard someone say something like this—maybe even someone very close to us. It may have come from a family member, a veteran, an emergency responder, a doctor, a firefighter, or someone who was put in a bad situation and made their way out.

Parents who raised multiple kids while dealing with poverty, health issues, addiction, and traumas of their own come to mind. Over and over again, you’ll hear people say that they simply “did their best” under difficult circumstances. They did extraordinary things and were praised for it, but refused to accept accolades, special treatment, or the idea that they were somehow different from everyone else.

I thought I understood what they were saying and suspected it was a simple matter of modesty. After all, a mark of a true hero is that they don’t need or want to be praised for what they did, right? “No thanks required” is how they roll, right?

But the truth is, I didn’t get it. But I do now.

Two Years of Crisis

As I detailed in a previous post, it all began two years ago when my wife suffered a hemorrhagic stroke caused by kidney failure. Over the next six months, she had to undergo several procedures and tests, and had to fight her way back from the injury and its lasting effects. While she was in the hospital, I did my best to visit her every day and bring home-cooked meals to supplement the hospital food she was getting (and didn’t much like!) I also did my best to take care of our fur-baby Jasper, who was quite confused and distressed by his mother’s sudden absence. And of course, there was also the house, our finances, and a million bureaucratic matters to tend to.

After six months, she came home. A new chapter began, and it was overwhelming from the beginning. In addition to dialysis three times a week, she had physiotherapy and occupational therapy two to three times a week. She needed constant assistance, and I was the only one there to give it to her. Three months after she returned home, we learned our fur-baby had intestinal lymphoma. At this point, my weeks were saturated by Carla’s appointments, operations and chemo treatments for Jasper, my writing jobs, and taking care the both of them.

My folks did their best to help us (and still do), driving three hours to see us and assisting big-time with chores, cleaning, and home renovations. But this was rather challenging since my parents are both retired and close to turning 80. Her parents had similar issues, living far away and having health issues that made travel rather difficult. My sister lives in Florida, while her siblings are a few hours’ drive away, but lead very busy lives.

Some friends would also come by to do dishes, drop off meals, and assist Carla in showering. But of course, people are busy, and as soon as Carla was out of the hospital, the assistance and visitations began to drop off considerably. After Jasper died, we faced financial hardship due to the combination of vet bills, Carla’s wheelchair, orthotics, and accommodations, her being off work, and me having to cut back on my hours. Then we had a rat infestation to deal with, followed by me contracting a MRSA infection that caused my arm to balloon and months of IV and antibiotic treatments.

The Unbearableness of Praise

Throughout this horrendous series of events, people kept telling me what a good job I was doing and praised me for it. I earned the nickname “Stalwart,” a play on my middle name, Stewart. My folks regularly told me how proud they were of me and said others spoke of me like I was a “hero” or a “saint.” I’m almost positive neither of these words was ever used, but that was the tone some people adopted when talking about my role. And my wife would constantly express her gratitude for what I was doing.

Our family and friends spoke similarly when talking to or about her, as she was always so determined and positive throughout the ordeal. I was never comfortable with all this praise, and I’m sure she wasn’t either. It just felt like a total misrepresentation. I thought I knew why this kind of thing rubbed me the wrong way, but it took me a while to articulate the reasons. I eventually came up with two possible explanations.

On the one hand, the word “hero” didn’t exactly mesh with my feelings. Throughout the crisis, I was incredibly stressed, burnt out, and/or incredibly anxious and depressed. I did NOT feel like I was on top of things; most of the time, I felt like I was barely holding it together. I was constantly caught between resentment and guilt, and felt like a total failure. I was just desperate for some kind of relief, and would find it with benzos, alcohol, or marijuana. This only added to my shame and worries, because I had to contend with the very real possibility that I was an addict.

At the same time, something always felt dismissive about it. It reminded me of what famed Nigerian-British writer, Buchi Emechita (OBE) wrote in her acclaimed novel, The Joys of Motherhood. In one of the later chapters, the main character is addressed by a bus driver after she relates how difficult her life has been. “But you’re a mother. You’re above all that,” he says. This leads her to reflect on how people will praise mothers when they’re actually ignoring the hardships they face.

You see this all the time in patriarchal societies, where mothers are supposedly revered while being treated like second-class citizens. For people who don’t have to deal with hardship, they would rather pretend that it doesn’t exist, lest it intrude on their happy little bubble. It’s far easier to praise someone struggling than to step out of your comfort zone and help them. It’s not unlike how people surrender authority to someone offering advice or elevating a “prophet” to godhood because it’s easier than listening to their advice or making any changes in your own life.

On the other hand, it could be what people do when they can’t offer help and feel really bad about it. I know from personal experience how much it sucks to hear that someone you care about is suffering and not being able to do anything about it. Not only is this something I felt for my wife constantly while she was in the hospital, which always prompted me to drop things and go in to see her, it’s something I’ve felt about my friends who are on the other side of the country. This included one of my best friends, who struggles with mental illness and even attempted suicide once.

When you can’t do something to alleviate someone else’s burdens, you feel the need to praise them for “doing it all by themselves” or saying “I don’t know how you do it.” But regardless, it’s of no use to the person on the receiving end. Praise doesn’t alleviate pain, grief, trauma, or make someone’s day any easier.

“I’m No Hero”

Unpacking all of this brought me to the realization I was previously missing. Basically, people who don’t want to be called heroes aren’t being modest. They don’t want praise, accolades, or applause for what they’ve done. They want people to know that they suffered and are still suffering. They went through a terrible crisis and experienced trauma, grief, and tremendous stress from it. Chances are, they feel like they barely made it through and aren’t sure how they will deal with it all moving forward. And they don’t feel like people understand, unless they’ve experienced the same thing or something similar.

Only those who have been through the ringer can ever truly understand. When the shit hits the fan, you have no choice but to knuckle down, step up, stand and be counted, etc. But all the while, you’re thinking, “Why me? Why us? Why did this happen? How could this have happened?” Getting through that is a terrible experience, but you keep going because you have to. You just want to reach the finish line, wherever it might be, and get your life back.

But there is no finish line. After you experience a terrible crisis, your life changes forever. And there is always what comes next: the sad and terrible knowledge you will carry for the rest of your life. You come to understand how fragile life is and how it can be changed irrevocably in an instant. Whatever you are enjoying – happiness, stability, success, or just plain boredom – it can be snatched away from you at any time. Under those circumstances, the word “hero” or other nice things people say to you ring hollow.

You don’t believe them. You know in your heart that you did the best you could, you survived, and you’ll have scars that will never fully heal. Above all, it will take you a long time to fully appreciate that. You might tell yourself as much, but it takes a while to sink in. Once it does, you will finally feel like you can begin to heal, but that will also take a long time.

I hope you’re all doing well out there. And if you’re not, that’s okay. You don’t need to expect that from yourself or feel like a failure because of it. No matter what you’re dealing with, you’re not alone. Chances are, there are countless people out there who are dealing (or have dealt with) the same thing you are. And don’t hesitate to reach out and ask for help where needed. I’m sure anyone who has been through the same thing (or something similar) will have plenty of helpful advice. It’s possible I might too!