Diane

I am someone who likes to relate to others through story. And, as is typical for so many of us atypicals, I feel an immense pressure to always have a story ready...to demonstrate exactly how it is that I relate exactly to you because I have had a story in my life that uses similar words and themes as the one you're telling me. 

Can you please finish your story quickly so that I can share mine and we can appropriately bond over our similar experiences? 

Someone has said (perhaps many someones) that we don't listen to hear any more; we listen to respond. Sadly, that is too often true. But I confess that I am also trying to hear you, and I'm one of those folks that remembers the little things you didn't think I was even paying attention to. 

Anyway...

I once had a friend who lived nearby. A neighbor. I once had a neighbor. And she was very much like me in that she loved to swap stories, not facts, and we spent a good deal of time learning each others' stories over the years. 

On the summer that I first learned that I was allergic to bee stings, after being stung for the first time ever in my life (and the second, and the third, and the fourth...it was a hard summer, okay?), I was walking into Diane's house and a hornet actually followed me. I explained to her that I had been stung an uncharacteristic number of times that summer by bees, wasps, hornets, whatever, and that I had found out that I was allergic, but these things were literally following me around for some reason.

I pointed to the hornet, and we both laughed. It was definitely following me around. 

(Sidebar: we would later discover an acid-base imbalance in my body that was attracting these insects, as it gave off the same pH levels as the stuff they seek out for food.) 

Without missing a beat, Diane chimes in with her story. She tells me about someone she knew - a friend, a friend's kid, a cousin, I can't remember - who had never been stung by a bee before, didn't know whether they were allergic or not, but died almost instantly because the insect had stung this young man in the neck and the venom had injected straight into his carotid artery, traveled almost directly to his heart via the venous return system, and paralyzed it. 

Thanks, Diane. 

This week, I got stung by a bee for the first time in many years. And do you know one of the first things that popped into my head? Thank God it didn't get me in the neck. And then that horrible story of a young man who tragically lost his life by the pure randomness of where a bee decided to sting. 

As I've thought about that, I've thought about how quick I am to try to share a story, to try to relate, to try to establish a connection with someone, but I wonder how many of my stories - as applicable as they may seem in the moment - are actually horror stories and come back to haunt someone else in the most terrible of times. 

It makes me consider carefully the ways that I try to relate and whether or not I'm actually being helpful or if I'm planting a rotten seed. 

For what it's worth, I thoroughly enjoyed my friendship with Diane. We got along swimmingly. I miss her quite a bit and think of her often, and I have even seen her once since she moved away. But this week, I'm thinking about that story and realizing I'm still learning lessons from Diane. 

So no, really. Thanks, Diane. 

And thanks, bee. For avoiding the neck region.