Do Not Call Me Naomi

I remember from my previous bouts that people act strangely around cancer patients. Some keep their distance, nervous that whatever they say will be the wrong thing, that if they shake my hand they might break it, that a hug might choke the last ounce of life out of me. Others go to great lengths to figure out a bon mot, a piece of advice, or an affirmation of belief that will somehow fit my predicament back into a manageable worldview. I can't say this from any high ground, because I've done the same thing to other patients when I'm well, or to people going through struggles that exceed my ability to empathize. Why do we shun those who remind us of the inadequacy of our words and deeds? Maybe it's part our secret pact with death: as long as death agrees not to embarrass me with its presence, I'll agree to avoid the painful step of self-relinquishing that might actually lead to life. "Whoever wishes to find his life must lose it."

In the Old Testament story of Ruth, when Naomi returns to Bethlehem with her daughter-in-law, her first public act is to change her name from Naomi ("sweetness") to Mara ("bitterness"). She's lost her husband, her two sons, and her place in the community, and she can no longer be the person who reminds everyone how pleasant life is. But her request is ignored. The people of Bethlehem--and even the narrator--continue to call her Naomi through to the end of the story. There are at least two ways to interpret this. Maybe the villagers didn't get it. Maybe they couldn't accept the truth of Naomi's tragedy, couldn't bear the cracks that she was making against the softly shaded lenses through which they viewed the world. Or maybe Naomi was the one who didn't get it. Maybe the people around her could see what she could not, that for all its contradictions and ambiguities hers was a truly blessed life and a cause of celebration that everyone could join into. I suppose both interpretations might be correct, and neither one complete without the other.