There's a saying in residency: “You see what you look for.
You look for what you know.”
I remember as first-years we had to come up with interesting
cases to present for weekly grand rounds given for the entire body of ophthalmologic
faculty, a nerve-wracking experience. We had to figure out how the knobs on a
slit lamp worked while simultaneously finding something interesting to world
experts, then get grilled on-stage about differentials and management. Every
single week. That’s Hopkins for you. Anyway, during early morning rounds we’d
pool together what cases we could find to see what passed muster for our chief
resident. He was someone we looked up to as a demigod: tall and attractive,
impeccably dressed, freakishly intelligent with intimidatingly high standards,
but somewhat socially awkward. Terse, blunt, the opposite of nurturing or
effusive. He had a way of talking without saying a word, and as we’d go through
the one or two cases we could find, he’d purse his lips dismissively and
ever-so-slightly shake his head.
There was always one resident in my class who’d have a list
of eight or nine cases each week. We’d each be desperately trying to dig out
one case, and he’d pull this long list out of his white coat pocket. Some of
them were ridiculous, but more often than not he’d have one or two worth
presenting. I was always dumbfounded: we worked in the same clinics; how did he
end up getting all the interesting patients? Until I realized: he read. All the
time. I mean, I would read about a diagnosis here or there, but he was reading
thoroughly through entire ophthalmological texts. He didn’t get all the
interesting patients; he just knew what to look for. Things that probably
passed right under my nose.
It’s a bit like confirmation bias: we see what we expect to
see, which then confirms what we expect. Some of the cases were ridiculous
because he saw what he wanted to see rather than what was contextually likely,
but a lot of the cases were true pick-ups of interesting findings that others
would have overlooked. The point being, what we think or know shapes how and
therefore what we see. To some extent, we see what we want to see.
This is especially true of marriage. In marriage you see the
strange juxtaposition of someone’s most unfiltered strengths and weaknesses. No
one knows better than a wife how her husband is self-sacrificial, hard-working
or the like: she also knows better than anyone how he leaves his socks on the
floor, or farts, or whatever. When you focus on the good things, you don’t
notice the bad things as much, and sometimes they even become oddly endearing.
When you think about the bad things, they seem to be everywhere.
If you think, he never knows what to do with the kids,
you’ll see him getting the wrong milk cups out or putting mismatching clothes
on them. If you think, he’s so untidy, you’ll notice all the times he doesn’t
immediately put something back the way you would have. If you think, why does
he have to zone out so much? you’ll start seeing all the times he checks
something on his phone or watches shows. But if you think, he cares about us so
much, you’ll notice the way he sets out breakfast bowls the night before to
save you time in the morning. If you think, he serves without complaining,
you’ll notice how he always drives, or changes diapers without being asked. If
you think, he’s so generous, you’ll see how he never criticizes what you buy
for yourself.
In a discussion about her book The Surprising Secrets of
Highly Happy Marriages, Shaunti Feldhahn once spoke about how couples who
are happy do one simple thing: they think the best of each other. If a husband
is late for an anniversary dinner date, for example, the wife could be sitting
there thinking: he’s always late. He doesn’t care about us. He always works too
much. Or she could be thinking, he’s doing his best. He must believe that
whatever is keeping him at work is important for both of us—and that makes her
respond differently to him when he finally shows up.
On the flip side, psychologist John Gottman microanalyzed
videotapes of couples talking, documenting tone of voice, facial expressions,
and body movement. He found that the greatest predictor of divorce was the
expression of contempt. Contempt is the end product of steadily seeing the
worst in your spouse: eventually they become someone subhuman. Someone you
treat in ways you wouldn’t treat a stranger on the street. As Gottman says,
“it’s trying to put that person on a lower plane than you.”
I’m not suggesting turning a blind eye to real issues we
need to talk and work through, but I think it’s true that who Dave becomes is
often a product of the dialogue I carry on in my own head. And how I see him
affects so much of who he literally becomes, since words and perceptions have
so much creative power in marriage. Am I conscious of what I’m thinking? Of
what I’m noticing about him and any judgments I make? What have I seen about
him today for which I’m grateful? This all could apply just as easily to the
kids. But that could be a whole other post.
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