Fairy Tales # 37: Mr. Empathberg’s Sick Leave

After the story with the hat (in the tale “About Mr. Empathberg and Mr. Compasson”) Mr. Empathberg kept crying for a long time. He cried over every hat in the river, over every wet pigeon, and over every passerby whose shoelace came untied. By November he was so tired that he went to the doctor.

The doctor asked what the problem was. Mr. Empathberg said: “I have compassion fatigue. I felt too much compassion, and now it has run out.”

The doctor wrote this down on his card and began to check. He listened to his heart. He tapped his knee with a little hammer. He asked him to say “ah.” Then he opened a small door in Mr. Empathberg’s chest and looked inside with a flashlight.

Inside stood a tank with the label “Compassion.” The tank was full to the top. The lid had never been opened, and there was dust on it.

The doctor said: “Your compassion is fine. You just never used it.”

Next to the tank lay another organ, small, wet and very tired. It was the one that all this time had taken other people’s hats, other people’s rivers and other people’s tears for itself. The doctor touched it with his finger, and it sobbed.

The doctor crossed out “compassion fatigue” on the card and wrote: “Tiredness from other people’s tears taken as your own.” And he wrote out a sick leave: two weeks of rest for the small organ, open the tank, drink tea.

Mr. Empathberg went home and lay down. He did not know how to open the tank. The lid was stuck.

In the evening Mr. Compasson came with oranges. He sat down on a stool next to the bed and asked: “So how are you?” Out of habit, Mr. Empathberg got ready to cry together with him. But Mr. Compasson did not cry. He was peeling an orange. Calmly, round and round, in one long peel.

Mr. Empathberg watched the peel and for some reason did not cry. Mr. Compasson gave him a piece. Mr. Empathberg ate it and felt that inside it became warm, not heavy. As if someone had quietly unscrewed the lid of the tank.

He asked: “So it can be like this?” Mr. Compasson said: “Like this.” And gave him another piece.

Two weeks later Mr. Empathberg went outside. That same day a boy’s hat fell into the river. Mr. Empathberg ran up, said “Oh!” and felt how sorry he was for the boy. But he did not lie down on the grass. He found a stick. He and the boy got the hat out together. And afterwards the three of them drank tea, with Mr. Compasson.

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The subtext. In the article “Empathy and Compassion” (written with Olga Klimecki), neuroscientist Tania Singer shows that empathy and compassion work differently in the brain. When we feel someone else’s pain as our own, our own pain system turns on, and it feels heavy. When we feel compassion, very different networks turn on: networks of care, connection and warm feelings. In one of her conversations Singer says it simply: you cannot burn out from love. People burn out when someone else’s pain becomes their own and they are busy only with getting rid of their own distress. That is why, instead of “compassion fatigue,” she suggests saying “distress fatigue.”

Cortland Dahl from the Center for Healthy Minds tells what Singer saw in her trainings. When people learned only to feel with others, they hunched over and looked pained. When they moved on to compassion, to the wish to help, they sat up straighter and their faces became brighter. Empathy is not the enemy here. It is the first step. What matters is not to get stuck on it and to take the second step.

In Buddhist practice, compassion rests on equanimity: the heart is open, and the mind stands on its feet. Mr. Compasson is not cold. He simply peels an orange while his friend feels bad. Next time someone else’s trouble feels heavy, try taking a breath and asking yourself not “how bad do I feel” but “what do I wish for him.” And see whether a stick or an orange appears in your hands.