Like everyone else, last week I was riveted to the news reports of the Titan submersible. We came to learn that, most likely, the five travelers mercifully died instantly upon implosion. But until we knew that—while the clock ticked down the hours, I found myself hungrily gulping air, thinking of the indescribable fear that must come when you know you’re running out of oxygen. Since I have always had a phobia of drowning, it wasn’t hard to dredge up that panic myself.
I will never understand why those five individuals thought a glimpse of the Titanic was worth a quarter of a million dollars as well as their lives. Indeed, water cooler discussions have over-analyzed all the good those aggregate dollars could have accomplished: funding research, feeding the hungry—sustainable, long-lasting benefits that lost out to the quick glimpse of a famous wreckage and the bragging rights that go along with a trip to the bottom of the sea.
I say watch the movie.
However, as all-consuming and tragic as the Titan disaster was, I was newly heartbroken when I read of the hundreds of migrants who sank in the Mediterranean, with the Greek Coast Guard criticized for not intervening more quickly. Evidently, according to an article in The New York Times, a Coast Guard spokesman said that intervention in international waters takes place only if there is gun or drug smuggling aboard.
Not run-of-the-mill migrants trying to escape oppression and find a better life.
One can’t help but see the ironic inequity between the financial and human resources—from all over the world—allocated to saving five wealthy adventurers and the scarce help afforded the poor migrants.
This last week I found myself not only claustrophobic and terrified for strangers facing watery graves; I also encountered people in my own orbit who were emotionally drowning—weighed down by illness or life changes, by loss or heartache or the unbearable weight of unsolvable problems. It seemed that everywhere I turned, people were running out of air, running out of steam.
Sometimes it requires a national event—like the Titan submersible calamity—to put things in perspective in our own lives. It takes television re-enactments of the claustrophobic, unthinkable conditions the Titan passengers must have faced in their final moments. Now, thanks to increased media coverage, we can also imagine the inconceivable terror those 700+ migrants faced on the treacherous waters. Whether you’re thrill seeking or striving to make a better life for your children, the imminence of death is profound.
And our own mundane, problem-riddled lives feel at once profoundly precious.
When we still thought the Titan passengers were alive, one prognosticator who predicted the number of hours of air left suggested there were ways to preserve oxygen: Remain calm. Stay still. Measure your breaths. Snuggle close together to share bodily warmth.
In our everyday lives, we may not be at the bottom of the ocean, but some of life’s vicissitudes take our breath away. Perhaps we should follow that expert’s advice. Practice measured breathing. Be calm and still.
Lean on the warmth of someone else.
Over 100 migrants were rescued from the Mediterranean Sea. I have to—need to—believe that they will go on to forge better lives for their children, that their sacrifice, their boldness will be worth it. Theirs is the hopeful ending to the twin tragedies.
And yet in the face of unexplainable loss we can find small pockets of hope—if only we look for them.
Just yesterday I was in our staff breakroom, and, waiting on a new pot of coffee to perk, I noticed in the corner a well-worn pad. On one column were foreign words. Opposite those were common English phrases: “What is your name?” “Where is the bathroom?” “Can you help me?” “Nice to meet you.” “How can I help you?”
I think that pad might belong to one of our cleaning staff: a woman who each day nods to me and speaks with her eyes. When I saw her at the end of the day, I thanked her for her work, and she smiled back as always. We “talked” about the heat outside by pointing through the window and making hand gestures. Wiped our brows dramatically.
When you get right down to it, our eyes speak a universal language. And, wealthy or not, American or immigrant, there will be times when we run out of air.
The question is: who will rescue us?
IN THE MIDDLE 