Skipping the Line at Disneyworld: A Conversation with Comedian Jesse Case, Part Two

Graphic courtesy of Jesse Case

The second part of this conversation with Jesse Case started with me explaining how my anxiety manifested itself clinically when my dad was sick. He had a silent heart attack my senior year of college, and for the first time, I realized my parents' mortality. I felt that I was losing the person who gave me life and my framework, but that my influence in the situation was minimal, hence the source of some very intense anxiety. I told this story to Jesse, and part two of our conversation resumes here. And if you haven't read part one, go back and read that first.

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Jesse: I've come at anxiety from the opposite angle of never thinking I've influenced anybody. When I got this diagnosis, it really bummed a lot of people out. People came out of the woodwork, and a lot of them are full of shit, but most of them aren't. People really care and are really great, and then I'm like, "Oh, I affect people. That's interesting." Because I never thought I really did.

I've never really worried about my time left. More time is always a bonus, but I've always been pretty in the moment. I was like a weird, punk rock kid. That's never been a huge issue for me, that I'm running out of time. There's a little bit of anxiety there, in the small stuff you want to get taken care of. You want to make sure everyone around you is okay. The hardest part - I know I've said this a lot on the show - is seeing my family go through this. And that's something that I do connect with you a lot on, the fact that I have a way bigger fear of losing my parents, going through something like you did with my parents. That's my biggest fear, is seeing them in the hospital bed. I would rather it be me. So a lot of my time is actually spent comforting those around me about my own condition.

Kelly: It sounds exhausting.

J: It's exhausting, depending on the person. It's exhausting if they make it all about them, but if it's just a good hang, then it's a nice distraction. And it also puts things into perspective for me because everything I say to them to calm them down, I realize, is the truth. Even if it's not really how I'm feeling, it just reinforces how I need to be thinking about stuff. Like, "This is no big deal. This happens to people. It's okay." And that's been relieving.

K: I was really also struck by what you've said on your show about how this is just "the thing" you deal with, but everyone else has "the thing" they're dealing with.

J: This doesn't minimize anything for anyone. I think the weirdest thing about having cancer is that it makes people not want to tell me their problems.

K: Don't you just want to hear their problems? I like to hear other people's problems.

J: Me too, but it makes them feel like an asshole. Like I'll be hanging out with a friend and they want to tell me about some crappy date they went on, and they're like, "Well, I guess I should stop complaining." And I say, "Dude, shut up. It doesn't matter. Just tell me the thing." None of what I'm dealing with minimizes any of anyone else's issues.

K: I think that this gets into this idea that I always think about, that all too often in our society we try to put a value judgement on if someone's suffering is worse than someone else's.

J: Well, that's impossible.

K: We have to put a value judgement on how this horrible thing is worse than this other horrible thing that happened to people. And I enjoy your attitude.

It's interesting because I wish more people just talked to cancer patients normally. I work at a cancer research hospital, and I was talking to this guy at my orientation who had never worked with patients before. He said, "I think it's going to be really hard. What am I going to do when I see a kid with cancer? I don't know what I'm going to stay to them." I respond, "Dude, they're just kids." And he said, "Well, you don't have kids, so you don't understand." But I do understand. I've worked with patients a little bit before being in the lab. I did this volunteer trip where I hung out with kids in an inpatient children's hospital. They're just kids. They just want to to play. They just want to do anything that any kid is going to do. It's hard to see a kid who's hooked up to a respirator. That does cause me to feel differently than I would about other kids who are "normal." At the end of the day, I think that people just want to be treated like people and be talked to like they are people with value because of who they are. It's just demeaning.

J: It is demeaning, and it's also a weird misunderstanding of people's own mortality. All this stuff with cancer, and I'm glad it exists I suppose, is that you get to skip the line at Disneyworld. And I wonder how I would feel if I was skipping the line at Disneyworld. Looking at the line, and wondering, "These people don't know they're going to die, too? Everyone in this line is going to fucking die. Like, why do I get to skip this line?" People talk to you like they're immortal. Like, "Oh, I'm so sorry this happened to you." But do you not think about things ever? Do you never think about things? You're on a respirator, too. We all end on a respirator.

K: I really agree with you on that.

J: And that's basically what life is. We go from 69ing to 96ing, as you learned, in your last relationship. You got 96ed hard on the phone. And I'm sorry about that.

This is a reference to something Jesse said earlier before the "interview" began. We were talking about if relationships with animals can be reciprocal, and he made a joke about how he 69's with his dog. I said something back about the amounts of peanut butter that must be involved in that relationship. He then said that we go from 69ing to 96ing when we break up with people. I thought that was hilarious, and true.

And then, we go from breathing to being on a respirator. And that's basically it. You could break it all down to a tweet. That's basically what life is.

K: That break up was the best thing that ever happened to me, though. I realized that you can make yourself happy. The placebo response and the way that we as individuals think about our own mortality and our own bodies has so much to do with our health outcome. And I don’t think it’s an accident that you’re doing so well, because of the attitude that you have. There’s this power of our own thought that we will never completely understand. So, I think that there’s something about how we see ourselves that influences how physically healthy we are.

J: Absolutely. You could view that even in less heavy things, like if you see yourself as an attractive person, then you appear more attractive to those around you.

K: I have struggled with that forever. I used to think I was not attractive.

J: Right.

I was about to continue when Jesse clarified that he didn’t mean to say “right,” like he was agreeing that I was unattractive. Thanks, dude.

K: I used to feel really uncomfortable with men. I used to have this horrible self image, and I don’t know what changed, but I realized that I actually am attractive. And, man. It just completely changed how people responded to me. And I think that you have to feel attractive if you’re going to be in a successful relationship. Again, it’s the framework of having your worldview being too small, and it’s great that one person might think I’m sexy, but I’m not spending every minute of day with that person. I want to walk around and have people maybe think that I’m attractive. And I can understand the need for that. I think in our society that it’s okay to want to feel attractive. We try to tell people that you shouldn’t care what you look like, but yeah, you should care what you look like if that is helpful to you. If that is making you feel like you contribute to the world more.

J: I refuse to associate with the ugly. If I see them out and about, I want them rounded up. Put into camps. Leaving the house and being all ugly, ugh. But really, I agree with what you’re saying.

Skipping ahead, I asked Jesse about how cancer patients get involved in research. I was curious to know general attitude of cancer patients toward participating in clinical trials or giving their tissue to science.

J: You want to do anything you can to help less people go through this. Immediately. Even if that pay off is two-hundred years from now, it doesn’t matter.

K: Do you think that’s universal to all the other patients that you’ve met?

J: It’s fairly universal. Anything you can do to contribute to research, you’ll just do it. Whatever you guys need, just take it. You need bone marrow? Let’s do this. Anything you can do to help, you would do it. You’re just in a position now where you can. I would have done that before, but I’m in a position now where I can be studied. I can be part of the data bank. I can contribute more to cancer research now than I ever could before. A lot of people go into phase I or phase II studies where they know that it’s not going to help their outcome. Sometimes it’s really invasive and it really sucks, but it’s the least you can do. I’ve been so poked and prodded and so much weird stuff has gone up my body recently in the interest of diagnosis.

K: Did you ever think you’d have so many things go up your butt? I can't imagine that. 

J: You can’t imagine what?

K: Things being put up my butt all the time.

J: Yes, but these people are professional. This is their job, and even if it is funny to them – “Oh my god, check out this guy’s butthole” – it still has nothing to do with me. It’s not demeaning to me. It’s just like, “Dude. Get a load of this guy’s butthole.” That’s fine. I don’t care.

Jesse is having surgery today to resect part of his colon and remove mets from his liver. He started to talk about the surgery at this point.

J: I've never had a surgery like this before. They’re going to have to shave half my body for it. I’m going to on the slab. There’s going to be a lot of people around. It’s going to be very well lit.

K: You said on your show that they aren’t going to know exactly what’s going on until they are inside your body. You’re going to be under anesthesia, and people are going to be making decisions about you and your outcome, and you don’t really have a say. In the moment, at least. Do you still have this attitude of being able to let things go, or is this anxiety-producing for you?

J: I sort of have a “let-it-go” attitude. My main anxiety about the surgery is, of course, the recovery. The idea that I’m going to have to stuck in a hospital for a week… that just sucks. It’s just a bummer.

When I got diagnosed, the original diagnosis was that I probably have two to three years to live, and the chances of there being a total cure were about 20 to 30 percent. With me, that was enough of a percentage for me say, "Well, let’s go for it." It’s all under the idea that I can bail on treatment at any time. I told them and they are all very aware of this, they can fuck me up as much as possible, if it will help. I don’t know if I’m going to have to have an colostomy bag or not. It’s one of those things where I could make the decision if it turns out I do have to have one, then sew me back up. But if that’s the cure, then do whatever you need to. I don’t care.

K: I’m assuming some people might not make that decision, though.

J: Some people don’t. Normally it’s people who are really elderly. If you’re eighty, and you’re like, "Nah, I don’t want to a colostomy bag." But I’m 29. Do what you need to.

K: What is the likelihood that you will have one? It sounded like, from what you said on the show, that you were initially going to have one, but now it sounds like you might not need to.

J: I’m going to have to have way less colon removed than they previously thought. It’s resectable, they are going to be able to sew it back together. If I do have a colostomy bag, it will be temporary, until the tissue on the incision heals enough for them to be able to sew it. Or they might be able to do it that day. The big risks in any surgery, especially involving anything where your colon or your liver is involved, is sepsis. Everything has to be super sealed because if anything from those organs leaks out into the rest of your body, it’s really bad news. Those are the big complication risks, so whatever they have to do to do that safely, I’m fine with. I don’t want liver bile leaking into my lungs, or something like that.

I’m going to be a mess. I’m going to be super out of it. The podcast is about to get real weird.

K: I’m really looking forward to it, and it’s going to be more listenable than you think. You’ll have some good material.

J: I’ve already done the show when I’m on chemo, where I’m just brain dead and don’t remember recording. This is going to be a new level of that.

K: On the show, sometimes you say, “This is going to be an episode where I’m drugged up,” but you end up saying something so profound, and you don’t even remember it!

J: I’m a pretty cool guy. I’m pretty cool, Kelly.

K: Clearly. You have a podcast with, I don't know, five listeners? 

J: I’m a comic genius, everyone just needs to accept that. It sucks I had to get cancer for people to realize it. Whatever.

I asked Jesse the following question not intending to use it, but he said I could use whatever I wanted from this talk, so...

K: So, if you have to have a colostomy bag, what would your sex life be like?

J: Well. That is an interesting question. It’s one I’ve looked into.

K: That would be the first thing I’d want to know.

J: It doesn't change. If I did have a colostomy bag, it would be during recovery. I wouldn't be doing anything anyway. 

K: You're not going to be wanting to have sex, I assume. The only time I don't want to have sex if I'm feeling really, really awful. Like if I'm physically unwell. 

J: Me too. 

K: Not everyone feels that way, though. 

J: It's been really interesting, getting diagnosed with this... you get apocalypse-style horny. Just like, a meteor is coming. Let's bang. But then at the same time, I'm loaded up on chemo, and it's really not possible. That's been weird having it just in my mind. 

K: So, not possible just that you physically couldn't do it?

J: You basically couldn't. You can't even masturbate. You're just too nauseous and sick. But then it's like all you want. 

As far as the colostomy bag goes, it's basically just a small tube comes that out of your stomach. It's way away from your junk. It's a bag that's adhesive but it's all wrapped around your whole stomach. It's almost like a really, really short tube top around someone's upper stomach. The technology has come really far. When I first heard about it, I was imagining carry around an IV bag full of shit. People go swimming and run marathons with them, it's not a problem. 

K: Are you worried, in general, about what your sex life is going to be like? Because of the fact that your tumor is kind of near your junk. 

J: Not really. Nothing they are doing is affecting my junk, which is great. The liver thing is laparoscopic, and the colon thing is going to be partially laparoscopic. So, it's not going to be some huge all across my stomach sort of scar thing. 

K: But that's hot! Ladies like that. 

J: Well, I sort of view that as like battle damage. Yeah, I beat cancer, so, suck this thing. 

There was a lot of laughter at that joke. It took me a minute before I could regain my composure. Jesse's response: "I know, I'm really romantic." 

K: How's your sex drive now?

J: It's around. 

K: That's a good sign. That probably means you're doing well. 

J: When things are able, sex is a goal of mine. It's a thing I'm into. And then other times it's just like having a cold. You know, you're just like, "Well, I can't do that right now."

I'm back in Nashville right now. I haven't lived here for ten years. I don't know anybody, so it's not like it's some huge option. If I were back in Los Angeles, and this sounds so cocky, it would be different. That would be something that would be on my mind a lot since it would be something I could make happen. Here, it's just kind of like...ugh. 

K: But that's how life is. When I was living at home for a period of time, it just wasn't really an option. It's wasn't something I worried about too much. 

J: It takes a backseat. No pun intended. 

Did you know that "no pun intended" is in itself a pun?

K: No! 

J: It's "nope, unintended." It's a vaudeville joke from the twenties. Did you a meet a pun? Nope, intended. No pun intended. 

K: That is crazy! I am going to tell everybody I know that the next time I hear them say that. 

J: I'm a wee bit of a joke historian. 

Laughter. 

No, seriously. I'm fascinated with the root of a joke's formula. 

K: I love people who are nerdy like that. No matter what it is, if there is some kind of nerddom, I immediately respect you.

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Jesse and I both had to go at this point. I'm certainly thinking of him today, that he's probably under the knife right now. I didn't include this part of our conversation, but we talked about this study I read where a cohort of patients who were prayed for had measurably better health outcomes than those who weren't. I don't know if this study can be believed, but I ask that you keep Jesse in your thoughts today. Who the hell knows. Maybe it will work. 

Destigmatize Decaf: A Conversation with Comedian Jesse Case, Part One

Artwork courtesy of Jesse Case

And now, something completely different. I had the opportunity to talk to one of my favorite podcasters this weekend. Jesse Case is a comedian from Nashville, Tennessee, and after some television appearances and successful tours, he's been living in Los Angeles for several years. Jesse is wickedly funny, incredibly self-aware, and if his appearance on the Kevin Nealon Show is any indication, he's destined for success. And then in 2013, Jesse got really sick. Like, shitting-twenty-times-a-day sick. He details the entire story on the first episode of his podcast, Jesse vs. Cancer. Jesse was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer, or as he calls it, "ass cancer of the ass." I heard about Jesse and his show when he was mentioned on Too Beautiful to Live, my favorite podcast. Jesse recently made an appearance on TBTL.

I'm a bioethics graduate student. I sit in the the library waxing philosophical on clinical ethics, but I don't know what it's like to deal with illness every day. On a whim, I emailed Jesse and asked if he'd be willing to chat with me. He agreed immediately. What resulted was a deeply personal conversation, from both sides, and what I hope is the beginning of a friendship.

I thought about what I was going to write about after recording our conversation, but I ultimately decided to let the words speak for themselves. I transcribed our call, and his voice translates as beautifully in the written word as it does on his show. What follows is part one of that conversation.

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Kelly: I've been listening to your show, and you've talked about some things that have been really interesting to me. You were telling your story about being diagnosed, and essentially, your doctors had to rule out every other thing before landing on cancer.

I don't know how, as a person who is not that much younger than you, I'd be dealing with this kind of diagnosis. What did it feel like actually having the worst case scenario? Did you ever suspect that there was something really wrong with you?

Jesse: The only time I ever had that suspicion, really, was the first time I sought treatment. I didn't have insurance and was in the process of getting insurance, but it was such a nightmare getting all that lined up. Like, it took months. I explained on the show just about how the financial stuff got assigned, and there's so much red tape. I wound up going to a free clinic. I had so much pain in my abdomen that one day, I just passed out in the shower it hurt so bad.

I realized this was a huge problem, and they gave me antibiotics. The weird thing, though, is that my symptoms still responded to antibiotics. Sometimes, in rare cases cancers can do that. 

K: That's essentially what cancer is, just inflammation in your body. 

J: All of the inflammation stuff is normally viewed as something else, like ulcerative colitis or Crohn's disease. I went to this free clinic, and that was the only time I had the notion that they just didn't care. I'm just this dude in a hoodie and jeans, and I was probably wearing a beanie. They just thought I was some junkie. You come in complaining about pain, and they thought I was seeking drugs. The first thing they told me is that they weren't giving me any pain medicine. 

They were just so awful to me at this place. It was kind of this weird experience because my mom is in the healthcare field, and she's actually very, very good. She's a doctor of nursing, so her patient satisfaction ratings are through the roof. She's like a big deal. 

K: That's why I want to go into that field, so I can work with people. Doctors can be really fucking awful, sometimes. 

J: Right, exactly. I have this standard of bedside manner that I'm used to, and then, it was the first time experiencing what it's like to be poor. This is weird because it isn't even like a healthcare thing, but like a white privilege bullshit thing. There have been times when my car is broken down, so I'm on the bus, and I still, in hindsight, view it from outside. Like, "This is interesting, I'm on the bus." What a weird way to view that. This is a lot of people's reality. This is mandatory for them. 

K: I used to take the bus a lot when I lived in DC.  I would feel separation from every single person. I don't take the bus in New York ever because I don't really need to, but I would have the exact same thought process, even though I would do it quite frequently. 

J: It's very weird. And it occurs to you that this is so many people's reality, that this is it, this is what they deal with. It was a terrible experience dealing with the free clinics, but it kind of lit of a huge fire in me of just trying to affect change in some way. Even if it's just through whatever skills I can bring to the table, which happens to just be being a comic. I was like, "Well, this is isolating and terrible. And this needs to change." Not even so much the actual treatment, but just the the cattle call of it. I know you were saying you see so many faces every day (you can read my thoughts on that here), with dealing with cancer or even just being in New York, it's the sensory overload of it. It's sensory overload being in that city. 

K: And I live here now. I love it so much because I was really unhappy with my life until recently. New York and I were sort of meant to be. But it is overload. I have to get used to it.

J: I always wanted to live in New York. I went to LA because it's cheaper. 

K: It's a myth that New York is super expensive. 

J: I'm realizing that now. Los Angeles and I are not the same. I've always been an alien there, and I'm very skeptical of people that like it. People there really love it, and I'm like, what are you guys talking about?

K: Me too! LA is so fucking weird. I've actually spent a good amount of time there, and I do not understand it. 

J: This whole thing that I've been going through has been such a revelation of needing to not waste my time. Not necessarily even to do something productive, but just I need to quit living my life like I'm going to be happy later. I think so many people have that assumption, like, "Oh well, I'll put up with this dead-end job for thirty years because then I'll be happy when I retire." But then, you're just wasting your life.

K: One of the things you said on TBTL that really stuck with me was that having cancer is awesome because you're living life the way that you should be, taking every day at a time. That spoke to me, this idea of having to have something happen to you to be like, "Oh, I'm going to get out of this job I hate, and I'm going to happy for the time I have left."

Why do we all have this attitude? I don't understand that. The inciting incident for me to get my shit together and to just be a happy person was when I was in this relationship that ended (That's the origin of this blog - you can read the first post here). He was the first person I ever loved, and it was so intense. He met my family. I thought we were going to get married and have babies. That was the plan. It was discussed. He had a lot of issues, and one day he just called me on the phone and put on this voice I didn't recognize. And he said, "I can't be in a relationship any more with you. This is just too much for me to handle." And he hung up the phone. Two minutes later, we were over. I haven't heard from him since then, and that was almost a year ago. I lost it. Luckily my parents lived close by at the time, and I said, "You need to come pick me up. My world just fell apart." I was Tobias Funke-style, crying in the shower. 

J: Oh yeah, I've been there. I've literally cried in the grocery store after a break-up, and the thought that triggered it was, "She ate food." That was the thought. It wasn't even a specific type of food. Just, she ate food. You know, breaking down in the cereal aisle. 

K: My ex really hated the idea of decaf coffee. I'll drink it sometimes, and I understand that everyone in the world judges you when you order decaf coffee. I have anxiety problems, but sometimes I just want to taste coffee because the effect is psychological. 

J: Also, not 100% decaf. That should be your argument. Like, "Dude, this is still 20% caffeinated. It's a lighter coffee." 

K: Destigmatize decaf.

J: I agree!

Side note: I was walking home from the subway tonight, and there's a diner a block away from my house with a neon sign that says, "DEATH TO DECAF." Damn you, hipsters. 

K: I'm so sick of people judging me when I order decaf. Every anxious person in the world in the world needs to get on this movement. Anyway, what triggered real sadness for me after this break-up was that someone I was out to lunch with got decaf. And I had to hold it together because I remembered this decaf coffee conversation with my ex.

That whole scenario was part of why this changed needed to happen. I said to myself, "You're whole framework for being is gone. But wait, that's a problem. One person should never be your entire framework of who you are, anyway." I did all this self-reflection and realized that I wasn't happy in my job, and DC wasn't the right place for me. I couldn't see that before. I have such an interesting relationship with Washington, DC, because I grew up there, but it's such a transitory place. People are there for six months, or nine months, for an internship and then they go. Everyone there is this one kind of person that I am not.

I got into grad school, and I thought, "Alright, this is what I'm doing now." I get stressed with things, but I just think I'm more mindful. Life is pretty good. It's almost like I'm expecting for things to get difficult or for me to be unhappy. I feel like everyone is talking about how unhappy they are all the time. The expectation is at this age that you should be really sweating it all the time, and I really don't want to be living my life that way. 

J: That's the whole thing about mindfulness, that you have to disconnect yourself from the narrative you give yourself. And if you actually look at things objectively, what's happening right now in front of you, it's never that bad. 

K: But you're saying that as a person with stage IV cancer. You genuinely think that now?

J: Genuinely think what?

K: You've never had a moment where you were like, "Wow, this is awful." I'm just trying to wrap my head around this idea of constantly being aware of your own mortality. I live my life thinking that I have a lot of it left to live. And your concept of time must be so different now. 

J: Look at it this way. Even on paper, from a narcissistic angle, there are pros and cons to both. If you were writing down columns of pros and cons, there are a lot of things that instantly went out the window. I'm not going to have to see my parents die. I don't have to worry about saving money. There are all kinds of weird things, where I was just like, "Well, that's cool." That sounds really fucked up, but it's true. These have been huge anxieties in my life I get to let go of all of a sudden. 

K: Realistically though, how much time do you think you have?

J: Well, I might not be terminal. I could survive this, my prognosis keeps getting better. This surgery will determine a lot. But I mean, this is the first time I've really considered life afterwards. It looks like now that's a possibility. And that's recent. That's only been in the last month I've started viewing things that way.

I discussed it a little bit on the podcast, but I'm worried that my philosophy, these things I've realized, will go back to the way they were before. And I make it sound like I was some douche before. That's not me; I never was. This is such an enhanced version of weird mindfulness. If I live through this, this will be the best thing that's ever happened to me, which is weird, because right now, clearly, it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me.

You and I click in the anxiety field. I've been really high anxiety my whole life. It comes from your world being too small. As you were saying, it comes from letting one person determine your whole framework. That's letting your world get really small, and that creates anxiety. But I think that I have this weird thing where my whole life most of my anxieties I keep wondering, "Is this my fault? What can I do about this?"

K: Me too. 

J: Even if it's a weird phobia, even if you're on a plane, and there's turbulence, and I'm like, "okay, could I have not gotten on this plane? Is there something I could do if I go to the cockpit?" And where you're dealing with something that it a heavy just in nature as cancer... I completely have nothing to do with this. This isn't based on something I said to someone when I was seven. It's just completely not my fault, and it's the first time in my life where I've actually been a victim. Even if that's not technically true. I'm sure I have been a victim before, but there's been no wonder of what I could have done to cause this. There's no what ifs. And I think that opens some pretty immediate acceptance.

For more, look for part two of this conversation this Thursday. Until then, listen to Jesse vs. Cancer on your favorite podcasting app or at jessevscancer.com. New episodes are out every Sunday. Follow Jesse on Twitter (@jessecase). Please also consider donating to Jesse's show - after he covers the costs of production, all of the proceeds go to the indigent care list at the Vanderbilt-Ingram Cancer Center in Nashville, where Jesse is currently getting treatment. Click the "Donate" button at the top of the page.

I've Just Seen 1,000 Faces

Duchenne facial expressions, the source material on register of emotion on human faces (Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons)

Like every other New Yorker, I take the subway to work every day. I hop on the L and get off at Union Square, where I switch to the Lexington Avenue line, whichever train comes first that I can literally squeeze onto and not get my bag caught in the closing doors. The subway in New York feels like a weird, Sims alternate reality world where getting onto the train at the right time or catching an express train or getting a seat makes that rotating diamond above your head green. Getting dripped on by an unknown substance or pressed up against a crackhead results in a steady decay from green to red.

The transfer at Union Square is, by far, my least favorite thing about this city. Two flights of stairs up, weaving through the crowd like a pinball to get to the uptown platform, and waiting for the train roasting in the late summer airlessness is not my idea of a relaxing way to get to work. One could probably graph my blood pressure against proximity to the Union Square station with an almost perfect r-squared correlation.

I just returned from a weekend with my aunt in the Berkshires, and, also like every other New Yorker, I spent the entire visit blabbing about how beautiful the trees were, and how amazingly fresh the mountain air felt every morning. I'd see a critter in the yard and make an annoying shushing sound coupled with the even more obnoxious "keep-it-down" hand gesture, like I had never seen a squirrel before and was filming a nature documentary. But what struck me the most about the difference between country and city living was the quantity of faces.

I've recently become aware of how many faces I encounter each day. Living in the most densely populated city in America means that we see hundreds, probably thousands, of unique faces daily. Whether we're aware of it or not, our faces convey micro expressions of emotion, lasting just a second or less. Our nervous system is wired such that our emotion registers on our faces subconsciously. The neurons that respond to emotional signals and the chemicals that produces emotions are quite literally wired to our facial nerves that control muscle, so whether we know it or not, our faces say so much about what we're feeling. This is how we can detect lying, fear, and disgust. This ability to read facial micro expressions is evolutionarily a part of us, how we interact on the most primal level with other human beings. I go hours without speaking to another person, yet I am bombarded with expressions underground.

Neuroscientists identified an area of the brain called the fusiform face area that's entire purpose, it is postulated, is to recognize and remember faces. It is also speculated that we as humans cannot "create" a novel face; when we dream, even if a stranger appears, it is likely that we have seen that face before.

Though I love my new life in the city that never sleeps, I've recently been thinking a lot about all the faces that run through my dreams at night. I've been dreaming more vividly than before, and upon waking, I feel as though I'm awaking from an entire day's worth of "dream time." I wonder if these extensive dreams, where I'm in a foreign country trying to get a flight home and I'm speaking fluent Spanish (something I struggle to do in real life), or where I'm preparing for a presentation that feels like it's taking days and days to complete, come from the sheer overload of faces and emotions my subconscious brain digests daily.

Where are you going? What are you thinking? What are your hopes and dreams and fears? These are the questions I find myself wondering about each person I encounter. I search for the answers to these questions in the furrow of a brow, a sweet smile, a look of annoyance. I'm fascinated with people. I've gone on record saying that I want to make a career of working with them.

But I'm exhausted. All of the time. And I finally understand why New Yorkers are so aloof. It's not that they are a cold people. It's a defense mechanism. Completely out of character for me, I ignored someone who apologized for running into me on the street today. It's not that I didn't I wasn't grateful for his apology; on the contrary, I appreciated it since most people aren't so kind. But I couldn't look at another face.

I don't know how to reconcile these needs: to connect with the world and its people and to maintain healthy distance. I fear losing my ability to understand what other people are experiencing. And if the world needs anything the most, it's empathy.

The Case for Kindness

Swasey Chapel, the landmark building of my alma mater (Photo credit: denison.edu)

Like Hogwarts was Harry Potter's true home, Denison University was mine for four years. Denison started to feel more like home than my native Washington, DC-suburb during my junior year, when I decided to stay on campus the following summer before my final year to start my thesis. Denison was where I lived and worked and where I had roommates and friends, who to this day feel like family. I went through my ups and downs, like the natural progression of any 21-year-old figuring out how to live, but never once did I feel unsafe. It sounds like a cliche, but my Denison experience meant more to me than my degree. It was a place where I truly belonged, where my friends took care of me in my darkest hour. To this day, I still need my Denison friends.

Yesterday, the Denison community lost a student. After he didn't come back to his dorm room and friends couldn't reach him, they reported him missing, and he was ultimately found dead. His death, presumed to be a suicide by the Licking County coroner, has struck something inside all my friends, even though we have long since graduated from our fair college on the hill. For us, this feeling of loss transcends mere sympathy for our alma mater. It feels personal. There is something inexplicably heartbreaking about the death of a person I never knew - something that, if Facebook and Twitter posts are any indication, we all feel. Our hearts feel empty, and I am left wondering. I wonder what set of circumstances caused a fellow Denisonian to take his own life. It is a reminder of how fragile each of us can be. It makes me think about some carelessly hurtful remark, though never the cause of a suicide, can cause real pain for someone else.  It reminds me that we never truly know what battles others are fighting. 

I have often thought that through the most tragic of times the true compassion of humanity sits quietly in the background. It does not boast, and it doesn't even want us to know it's there. According to several news sources, approximately 700 Denison students gathered to help search every building on campus for the missing student. That's a third of the student population. I can't think of the last time a third of any population of people did something collectively. I can picture the search parties, dividing up on the academic quad, searching through every classroom and office and lab. I can imagine President Weinberg kindly instructing everyone to go back to studying after many hours, even when some still wanted to search. 

I couldn't help but selfishly wonder how many people in New York City would look for me if I went missing. And I couldn't think of any other place, besides Denison, where I've lived that would collectively gather to help someone. For all our college's flaws, this communal action, working together to help one of our own, made me realize how lucky I am to have Denison as a part of my identity. 

Despite this tragedy that leaves us all shocked, I could not be prouder of the students that we alum left behind. This sense of community didn't result from this tragedy; it existed well before it. It's one from which we can all learn, to help each other simply because we are all a part of this human community, and to remember that the case for kindness is a simple one.

If you or someone you know is having suicidal thoughts, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255. For more information, visit their website at www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org.