One aspect of Aspergers that should be entirely positive is
our complete and total honesty and our willingness, indeed almost need, to be
helpful. What could go wrong with that attitude?
Lots, as it turns out. Like being asked whether someone
looks fat in a dress they are wearing. I realised early on that “Yes” often
received an adverse reaction. It was completely and totally honest but clearly
lacked that other criteria: helpfulness. So I modified my answer to: “Yes, but
I wouldn’t worry as you’ll look just as fat in anything else”. To my
bewilderment, this didn’t go down well either. Maybe I needed to show I cared.
Demonstrating empathy is something we find hard. It’s not that we don’t care,
it’s just that we always look as if we don’t care. Next time I tell someone
they look fat maybe I should have a pained expression, like it’s a bad thing.
I once had an opportunity to bring all three criteria into
play when my one-time secretary – we’ll call her Mary for all the usual
reasons, like, that’s her name – arrived for work looking ghastly. I say ‘secretary’
but, in reality, I was too junior to have a designated secretary but Mary did
my typing and made me a drink now and again. I liked her enormously and,
despite her being several decades older than me, we always got on. So I was
genuinely concerned when she walked in early one morning looking like she was
about to drop dead of Ebola. Mary usually belied – what I thought then – was her
advanced age and looked fabulous, so her current state was of immediate
concern.
My initial reaction was honest, helpful and, above all,
delivered as if I cared. “My God!” I almost shouted, “You look awful. What in
God’s name is wrong?” Mary smiled wanly and sat at her desk, directly opposite
mine. She resembled a zombie.
“Are you ill?” I pressed, “A disease? Has it been coming on
long?”
Mary sighed and replied, “I was late leaving the house this
morning...” Before she could finish, I cut her off.
“Fair enough,” I allowed severely, “but to arrive looking as
bad as you do. You shouldn’t have even got out of bed. You look truly hideous
and you need to take whatever it is seriously. Go home. See a doctor. Maybe an
undertaker too. Best be prepared.”
At this point, a colleague walked over. He looked at Mary,
looked at me, and told me not to be so unkind.
“Unkind!” I spluttered, “Mary looks as if she might die any
moment and you say I’m being unkind. My God man, just look at her.”
He did. And so did I. Mary had taken out her make-up bag and
was applying some powder to her face. She finished her earlier sentence...
“I was late leaving the house this morning… and I didn’t
have time to put my make-up on”.
Make up? You mean… No! I was utterly flummoxed. I then
proceeded to watch Mary turn from an extra from the Night of the Living Dead to
the gorgeous individual we all knew and loved. Incredible.
But I wasn’t going to let it rest there. “You look much
better,” I allowed, “But for pity's sake, never do that again. I can’t take the
shock.”
And, to her credit, she never did.
