“Though we would like to live without regret and sometimes insist proudly that we have none, this is not really possible, if only because we are mortal.”— Ben Baldwin My brother Sam was the youngest of our four siblings. I was the oldest. Sam was born when I was 16 and heading off to college. I was far less brotherly toward him than my other two siblings were. As an adult, Sam grew generally distant from our family, a bachelor living in another state and working as a bartender.
Highly intelligent, Sam’s thinking and planning were romantically grandiose, bordering on delusional. He had unfulfilled schemes to be everything from a professional boxer to an explorer on expeditions to undersea ‘lost’ worlds. Living a seemingly lonely life, Sam hung himself at age 37. Only days before his suicide, Sam had phoned me (a virtually unprecedented event) to say “hello,” which, in retrospect, was his personal “goodbye.”
Suicide always leaves friends and loved ones holding the bag. Sam’s death left me with lasting regret that I hadn’t been more attentive, more supportive …more of a lot of things… for him. Now, even years later, I suffer what can be termed “closed-door remorse,” a regret that can’t be fixed because the person is no longer alive. Whenever I think of Sam, I feel recurring sadness and guilt.
Many years later, in my midlife, while working at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, my secretary announced a phone call for me from “Andrea D.” I hadn’t heard that name in 40 years.
Andrea had been my girlfriend in our late teens and early college years. We were both Midwesterners attending the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. After a three-year romance, she abruptly asked mutual friends to deliver the news that she needed a change … that she needed to seek greener pastures. We had no contact after that until her phone call. I had known for years that she had established a clinical psychology practice in our hometown. She had become a patient of my dentist brother, John, and sometimes inquired about me. I also knew from John that she had never married.
Quite surprised and somewhat hesitant, I picked up the phone to greet this woman from my past. Perplexed about why Andrea might be calling after so many years, I hesitated to greet her. After exchanging a few awkward pleasantries, I asked why she was calling. She said, “I just want to apologize.”
She offered nothing more, both of us aware it was for her abrupt end to our relationship years earlier. I insisted she had no reason to feel remorse, and she countered that her apology was “just the right thing to do.” After a brief exchange of courtesies and small talk, we said our goodbyes.
Some time later, reflecting on her call, it occurred to me that, as a mental health therapist, she likely often urged penitence in others and perhaps was exercising repentance herself. Her remorse is an example of an “open-door regret”… shame that can be ameliorated because it involves a living person, however awkward and uncomfortable the offered contrition may be.
The lesson from her call is that when one cares about a relationship that has been undone, one can somehow establish contact, make a visit, or do something to reach out … to push past the mental clumsiness and reluctance that block needed action.
When I reflect on her apology and the courage it took for Andrea to carry it through, there’s a valuable life lesson --- open-door regrets allow us to extend ourselves to do what should be done, however difficult and humbling it may be.
After attending Al-Anon meetings for many years, I learned about “making amends” as an enhancement to offering apologies. The intention and sentiment conveyed in ‘making amends’ is that one not only faces up to and apologizes for ill behavior but also promises to do better in the future. It seems like a more sincere, enhanced effort than offering only personal acknowledgment and lament for past transgressions.
In his insightful book The Power of Regret, Daniel Pink introduces the valuable concepts of “closed and open regrets.” He further suggests: “We all should transform regret into reaching out and doing better.”
Ken Fellows
Joanna Seibert joannaseibert.com
