empathy.

"When a good person dies, there should be an impact on the world. Somebody should notice. Somebody should care."

This was said on an old episode of House (wow, look at my scholarly references) by the ever-compassionate Dr. Cameron. The first time I saw this episode, that line made me stop breathing. The context was that Cameron had befriended a terminally ill patient, who was essentially alone in the world, and after Cameron painfully and reluctantly informed her of the diagnosis, Wilson basically asked Cameron why she had even bothered making friends with her. The scene etched itself into my mind and Cameron's fervent sentiment resonated in my ears for days. Such poignant words have a tendency to do that.

I suppose the reason I was so moved by such a line is that I feel like it's something I would say. It's something I have always felt. I remember being frustrated in history classes when I read about tragedies, persecutions, wars. I could read the words, but I couldn't feel the grief. No matter how hard I tried, I would never really understand what the Holocaust was like from a textbook. I could never mourn with the family members of victims; I could never honor their loss with my tears. I found this infuriating.

If I had one wish, I would like to go back in time to all of those history making tragedies and experience the horror for myself, so that I could look people in the eye and tell them I know how they feel. And that it would be okay. On a smaller scale, and one that doesn't require time-traveling, I would like to have perfect empathy. I would like the ability to feel the sorrow of someone else, friend or stranger, completely and purely. I think it's something everyone deserves.

Two summers ago I went to New York City and during my stay I visited Ground Zero. Incidentally, we stumbled upon a small 9/11 memorial museum that was practically hidden, and decided to go in and check it out. It turned out to be one of my favorite parts of the entire trip. Quite suddenly, the awe and horror of that day flooded into my veins, and I started weeping as I saw the debris on display--airplane windows, firefighter jackets, elevator signs. I stared, incredulous, at all of the faces of the missing, my raw throat burning. Far from being a tourist attraction, this was an intense, gripping experience. One that I needed. One that reminded me how similar I am to everyone else. One that, while draining, provided comfort in knowing that I was not alone.

And thus we return to the House episode. Which is more sad, a dying person that everybody loves or a dying person that nobody loves? I won't trivialize such a situation by suggesting an answer, but I will suggest that there is no greater feeling than companionship and the knowledge that you are not alone. Thus, Cameron's role in the aforementioned episode seems particularly heroic to me, and I hope I would do the same if I were in her position.