Shared joy is double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow

Work was slow one day at the pharmacy. Customers trickled in while staff worked at a leisurely pace to finish their few remaining tasks. A customer walked in and approached the pick-up counter. Being the first to notice him, I put down my counting tray and walked over, not knowing that this ordinary afternoon would become something to remember. “Hi there, how can I help you?”He responded that he was picking up his mother’s blister pack with a tired, defeated look. He had spoken to the pharmacist earlier today to modify this month’s blister due to her recent hospital discharge. Overhearing our conversation, the pharmacist gave me a nod and walked away to retrieve the bag. In those few moments as we waited for her return, I said, gently, “I’m sorry to hear about your mom. I hope she's doing better now that she’s resting at home. How are you holding up?”I expected a generic or sterile answer, but instead, he sighed and admitted, "It’s been hard. I’m really stressed from taking care of her, and people around me don't get it."I was slightly taken aback by the vulnerability of his response, but I recomposed myself and gave him space to share. He continued on about feeling lonely and was getting visibly upset as he spoke. At this time, the pharmacist returned to the counter and handed me the medications. Noticing the rare period of calm in the pharmacy and how eager he seemed to talk, I quietly asked the pharmacist if I could step away for a little. She agreed, so instead of cashing him out, I said, “We have a private room in the back—if you would like, we can talk for a bit.”He surprised me once again by accepting the offer, so we weaved through the blood pressure machine and digestive health aisle into the counselling room. Though the keyboard clicking and paper rustling were barely muffled by the thin walls, it was as if the boxes of gloves and empty sharps containers created a bubble, where it was silent except for the gentle humming of the vaccine fridge behind us. A few moments of silence passed as he sat awkwardly on the creaky plastic chair and looked down at the table. Then, he began to tell me about the stress and pain of caring for both his elderly mother, who he was slowly losing to her disease, and his young daughter, who no longer wanted to see her grandmother as she didn’t understand her condition.He recounted how his vulnerability was met with coldness and dismissal when he tried seeking support from his friends, who bluntly stated they "don't want to talk about sad things." And when he turned to his family for comfort, they told him to "be a man." He felt he needed to be strong for everyone, but there was no one for him to turn to. As his heavy emotions flooded out and slowed to a dribble, I carefully considered what to say. I said that I wouldn't pretend to know what he was going through, but it didn't stop me from listening and offering my thoughts and reassurances. First, I told him about the Chinese idiom “上有老下有小”— “the elderly above, the young below”— describing the responsibility of caring for both your aging parents and your growing children. I shared it in hopes that he would feel seen knowing that his pain had been felt, named, and carried by others. My words seemed to resonate with him, as silent tears began to roll down his face. I told him that taking care of someone with a terminal illness is never easy, and from personal experience, grief tends to seep in long before they pass. With no one willing to listen, he became convinced that his struggles were a burden to others. To that, I offered him one of my favourite sayings, "shared joy is double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow." Sorrow, like joy, is meant to be shared, and I reminded him that company comes easy when times are good, but only those who truly care stay in the hard times too. He shouldn't suppress his emotions in fear of being a burden; a good friend will listen and help carry that weight.I told him—words he was perhaps hearing for the first time— that I could see his strength; it takes resilience and maturity to acknowledge and process one’s emotions. Opening up and seeking support shows courage, not fragility.As I listened and reflected on his story, it was suddenly my father I saw sitting across from me. Though looking back at me was the wrong nose and strange brows over unfamiliar eyes, I saw the same silent suffering and tired soul. My father took care of his late father, my grandfather, for years as he battled cancer and its residual complications until he passed a few months ago. In his final months, the near-weekly midnight emergency department trips demanded countless sleepless nights. Yet my father continued to work to ensure I had everything I needed while also managing my grandfather’s health, never once letting me feel the weight he was carrying. As the illusion faded, I was once again face to face with a stranger. We spoke about mental health support systems, accessing therapy, and how to take the first step. He thanked me and admitted that he felt more supported in that thirty minute conversation with a stranger than he had in decades of knowing his friends and family. I never saw him again after that day. His name and face have long escaped me, but I can only hope I had as great an impact on him as he did me. As I watched him walk away, still softly sniffling with his mother’s crinkled prescription bag in hand, I knew I owed my father a call that night.

Shared joy is double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow

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