I read an article outlining statistics, or stickysticks as my daughter used to call them, about why people divorce. Of course not all stories fit neatly into a multiple choice survey but the results do uncover at least some of the tributaries of marital erosion. A third of men squoze their problem under the heading "Communication" as did a quarter of the women. Another twenty percent of both genders pinned the blame on affairs, and another fifth pointed to the catch all "Incompatibility". 

 

I am not nor have I ever been in the medical field. My home emergency kit is woefully sparse... band aids, Neosporin, homeopathy and a half spent bag of lemon cough drops. But for the cases of gushing blood and bruised backs we sprint to the nearest emergency room. 

 

Perhaps it is frustrating for Doctors Without Borders to arrive in a village that has been bruised by too many deaths from curable diseases. It is one thing to mourn the loss of babies to hydrocephalus, or malaria. But when the solution is as straightforward as amoxicillin, I suspect there is fist slamming. Perhaps it is insensitive to use a word like unnecessary when you are talking about the death of a child. Is any death necessary? But some maladies are medicable, without the expertise of a prestigious team and an arsenal of multisyllabic drugs. A splint would suffice, given in a timely manner, or an antibiotic available over the counter. But when the counter is two thousand miles across the ocean, for a price that dwarfs a day's wages, people die.

 

Communication problems need not be fatal. There are skills that can be acquired. I am part way through a course in listening, and have taken a slew of other brands over the years in ten states. It is not copyrighted information, or even classified. Children can learn too. I have shepherded four year olds through the simple process my father cut his professional counseling teeth on. Revolving Discussion Sequence. It goes like this. 

 

Two kids are escalating in their proprietary rights over a marble chute that stood neglected in the closet for the last two years. It is suddenly prime real estate. 

 

"Micah, tell your sister your piece," I interrupt the drama.

 

"It is MINE and I want it!" he snaps.

 

"Chara, say what he said," I lead.

 

"Mom, he thinks it's his..." she turns to me. 

 

"No, talk to your brother." 

 

"You think it is yours," she concedes reluctantly. 

 

"Is that right?" I ask him. The urgency has ebbed. 

 

"Yes," his grip loosens. 

 

"Your turn, Chara," I invite.