Listen to thisIf you read through this month’s CYC-Online (you all read the full thing, no?), you will quickly recognize that this piece sits in conflict with another piece my colleagues and I have written together. I bring this tension intentionally.
In CYC we often speak about relational practice. Some may even argue that the foundation of our field is in relational practice. Students learn helping skills, therapeutic conversational skills, self and community care skills, and so on. It is an honour to be in relation with one another, this I am certain of. However, I recently had an experience that has me questioning how we, CYCers, sit in relation with one another. Let me share.
A few days ago, I went to the optometrist, a new to me practitioner. The optometrist office is closer to home and well-known for its advanced technology, funky eyewear, and practicum opportunities. I’ve been acutely aware of spaces that offer practicums as I recognize the effort, challenge, and dedication that goes into securing, sustaining, and enhancing practicum opportunities. Thus, I lean toward services that provide this opportunity – this tangent, unnecessary! Anyways, As I walked into the optometrist’s office, I was greeted with a simple hello, do you have an appointment? We went through the regular pre-appointment routine of filling out forms and sitting for my turn to be seen. I didn’t think too much of anything other than the fact that not one of the four office staff attempted to make small talk, not even with one another.
I waited a few minutes and then was called in for the pre-tests. I entered the pre-exam room, following the optometrist assistant. Our few moments together went like this:
Optometrist Assistant (OA): Please sit here, your chin on there and forehead touching the top bar.
Shemine (S): silently moving into position.
OA: Great thanks, move to the next machine.
S: moves over, still sitting on the same chair with wheels.
OA: Same head position. This one will blow a puff of air in your eye. Please keep your eyes open as wide as possible.
S: okay.
OA: Next eye…You can come to this machine now.
S: slides over
OA: Same head position. Can you see the green light? Follow it as it moves to one side. Okay now blink…keep your eyes open for the flash in 3…2…1. Next eye please. Blink…keep your eye open for 3…2…1. Next machine.
S: slides over.
OA: This one will check the layers of your eye health. You’ll have to lean with your eye looking into the machine and your nose and mouth facing the door.
S: follows instructions
OA: Please lean back slightly. Great. Continue to look at the shape. A light will move across the screen, try to keep your eye open…okay, next eye.
S: shifts position
OA: We are done. Go back to the waiting room and the optometrist will call you when ready.
S: walks back to the waiting room.
As I sat there, it crossed my mind that I said less than two words. If you know me, this is not normal. It was a rainy, gloomy day. I chalked it up to nothing.
Within a couple of minutes, the doctor called my name. I got up to follow her into the room. She asked if she said my name correctly and I offered a gentle nod. She then mentioned that we’d be going into the room for the rest of my eye exam, thanked me for doing the additional testing as it gave her a good view of my eye health, and then asked me to sit on the big chair. She continued by asking if I had any concerns with my eyes. I responded with dry eyes and felt my depth perception might be off as I keep missing the ball at field hockey by just a few millimetres. Her response was, okay, let’s check that. She then went through her health history inventory as I was a new patient. The rest of our conversation was much like the one I had with the optometrist assistant. Directions to follow in order to best test my eyes. I won’t recount it here for you, but imagine the full 20 minutes being instructions. Zero small talk.
As she glazed into my eyes, I thought about how comfortable I was. I recalled previous eye exams where I fumbled through words to keep away the silence, to respond to the questions posed, and often shared more about my day-to-day life than necessary. This time around, I walked away with a piece of paper that had instructions to care for my eyes and a copy of my prescription from reception. The most I said during this time was okay and a number to indicate which lens felt best.
I finished my appointment, paid the bill, and headed out into the rain. As I was walking across the street, I realized I was smiling. The smile was a response to not having to have said much, anything at all. The service I needed was completed with minimal interaction, yet I felt seen. The needs I had – dry eyes and depth perception – were addressed. I need some eye drops, a change of prescription, and a recommendation to wear sports glasses while playing field hockey. I felt so seen that I recounted this experience to a friend who happens to be a medical practitioner. We discussed how often we over-exert the need for small talk with an underlying desire to create spaces of comfort. I’m left thinking about how silence, the limited use of small talk (none in this case), and purposeful-driven practice, can be equally fulfilling as a courageous conversation.
I leave this writing hanging and with a provocation: when, how, why, and in what spaces can we, as CYC practitioners, approach our relational practice without getting to know the people we work with as quickly as possible? Can we, as CYC practitioners, effectively do parts of our work without the small talk? Is there an opportunity to embrace a different approach to relational practice that exists in contrast to vulnerability? What would this approach look like, and who might benefit most?
A plethora of queries can be posed. Ultimately, I was left in awe of the experience that juxtaposed everything I have learned and know about relational health-oriented care.
