Who Cares?

I do

I’m a listener, not a conversation starter. I can read people and am almost always spot-on. I am happy to be in the background and let others shine or dominate as their personality dictates. It wasn’t until the mid 1990s, when the phrase and concept of a highly sensitive person became mainstream, that my behavior finally made sense to me. I wasn’t a weirdo, I was blessed as an intuitive HSP and a Myers Briggs INFJ personality. As an introvert, I have, at times, felt like an outcast, invisible, or unimportant. Since I was often one of them, I always noticed the loners and left-out students at school. I made it a point to make them feel welcome, seen, and included, even if that meant it was just the two of us. I guess you could say I was caring, but I never thought of it that way. I just did what I felt was right.

Photo by rebeccacarpenterimagery.com

At 14, I was finally old enough to become a Junior Volunteer at the local hospital. I was thrilled to be of service and learn a thing or two about the practice and delivery of medicine (although I wouldn’t have used those words back then.) Most of my after-school or weekend shifts were routine - delivering meals, picking up the trays, answering the call button, and helping out the nurses with non-medical tasks. I was never bored. The highlight of my time there was when a doctor needed a hand while tightening the setting of a patient’s broken arm (or something to that effect). He asked me to pull on a wire while he counter-pulled on another. He complimented my efforts and said women make good orthopedic surgeons because they are gentler than men.

It was the summer of ‘68, and I was finally old enough to get a “real” job. My first paid job was taking care of people who were the age I am now, or older. Maybe some were even younger. With my experience as a volunteer at the local hospital, the nurse’s aide position at the Westwood Nursing Home sounded ideal. I started out delivering meals and making beds, but soon moved up to helping them bathe, get dressed, and tend to their other needs.

I took my job seriously and approached it with respect. I have two favorite memories: 1) watching a woman matter-of-factly scooping up her quite long, saggy, and deflated breasts and stuffing them into her bra cup. (I am now mentally prepared should that ever happen to me.) and 2) Mr. Maddox, a cute, harmless old man who loved to watch me make his bed. Skirts were quite short in 1968. He tried to tip me a dollar, too.

My next job as an 18-year-old pregnant newlywed was as a dental assistant to an oral surgeon. That was followed by a few years as a receptionist/assistant to a periodontist. When a job became available just two blocks from our apartment, I went to work as the receptionist for a general dentist. I could go home for lunch! He would stand at my desk looking at his watch every day at 12:58 pm to make sure I returned from lunch at home on time. I was never late, never wanting to give him the satisfaction of reprimanding me.

I was a very pleasant and efficient receptionist, but he never let me read at the desk like my former employer did when there were no patients and all my work was done. I was going stir-crazy and gave up the convenience of being close to home for a more tolerable dental assistant position just one mile from home. This dentist was much younger and laid back. My dental assistant career ended when I saw a want ad for a medical assistant for an OB-GYN doctor. It was this wanna-be doctor’s dream come true. Mind you, back in the 70s, no one needed certification or formal training for any of these assistant jobs. I had excellent training from all of my dentist employers, but when I went to work for Dr. Walsh, I hit the jackpot.

As a former clinical professor of obstetrics and gynecology at the university medical school, teaching came naturally to him; almost every patient exam he did was a teaching lesson. Most were routine, but a few were hard lessons to take. I saw bruises on the hip and legs of a woman whose husband had kicked and abused her. I assisted the doctor while he examined a young rape victim and was present for an artificial insemination. His teaching even extended to the hospital delivery room and OR. I had the honor of being by a few mothers’ sides (with their permission), holding their hand, as they delivered by C-section back in the days when the husband was not allowed in the surgical suite. I observed what three inches of abdominal fat looked like during a hysterectomy. I still remember the change in the atmosphere of the OR when an abdominal exploratory surgery revealed that the 28-year-old patient was full of inoperable cancer. I was 26.

Being raised in a loving, caring family that did good deeds in the community, plus 12 years in a Catholic school, instilled in me the importance and value of caring for others. Caring for the elderly in the nursing home, my dental and medical patients, my husband, children, and later, my parents as they aged was a no-brainer. It all came naturally.

“What’s the point of all this?”, you may be asking? It recently dawned on me that what I now recognize as “my caring nature” is what led me to my unintentional career as an artist. If you’ve read my previous post, you know about my struggle to find and make time for myself and my creativity. But there’s more to that story.

One frozen January in the year 2000, I discovered the secret I had been seeking could not be found in classes nor in the books. I realized that the secret was in my hands and in my heart. The answer was in the doing, in the making of art – my art. Although all the years studying about making art had served me well by deepening my knowledge, once I found my voice I also found the answer I had been searching for – the truth about art and creativity.

And then I seriously began to wonder,

“What if I had never discovered this secret of creativity that I had been searching for all my life?”

Boy, did the thought of that scare me. Becoming the artist I had struggled so long to be had changed my life, and I felt complete. I worried, “How many other women are out there who are also searching for a way to express what is in their hearts?”

Stronger than my desire to make art was my drive to share what I have learned.

My art, books, and teaching all came about because I cared about all the others who were looking for meaning in their lives. It wasn’t just about the how-to; it was about the why-to. Something was still missing. After years of teaching at big multi-class, multi-teacher events, I had a strong desire to create a smaller, intimate retreat where women could connect through their shared interest in art - to really get to know each other. I spent a couple of years looking for just the right place, a home-like setting. I finally found just the place in 2011. It was a real home turned into a retreat center. I booked it for October 2012, and the Red Thread Retreat was born. It’s an art sisterhood, a caring space, and an environment for making and making friends, connections, and meaning. And it’s perfect for introverts like me, although not everyone is.

Misty Mawn Red Thread retreat and Conversations after dinner

Everything I’ve done was done for you, not for me, because I cared and continue to care. It is the reason I am writing here on Substack. It is my nature to reflect, make connections, and study how our lives evolve. It’s also a way for me to “Know Thyself.” I share myself and my insights in the hope that it can make a difference in someone’s life. It’s the Golden Rule - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I am writing to you because you, too, have further to fly.

PS. Simply put, the key difference between introverts and extroverts is that introverts gain energy from spending time alone, while extroverts gain energy from being around other people. Social interaction drains introverts' energy and recharges extroverts' energy.

Quotes of the Week

Each new creative beginning is a confirmation of the simple truth of taking care.
Robert Genn

Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.
Leo Buscaglia

Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.
Simone Weil