The Raspberry Syndrome

A column by Susan Ager in a recent Detroit Free Press resonated mightily with me. She described her failure to send a note to a casual friend who had suffered a stroke. For many reasons the task slipped her mind and suddenly she found herself face to face with the person she had neglected, and her guilt.

I think most of us have had the same experience. Remembering does play a large role, but in my case I more often attribute my shortcomings to the raspberry syndrome.

I love raspberries, but when everyone was living at home, I never bought them. A small and expensive punnet of the luscious ripe fruit would have had as much chance as the proverbial snowball in my kitchen where seven large people assembled in search of food. I stuck with apples and oranges. There’s a certain commitment in the peeling and coring and segmenting. But now it is just the two of us, I can buy raspberries. I tuck them in the refrigerator, waiting for the opportune time to serve them. With vanilla ice cream? On cereal? In a salad with a raspberry vinaigrette? And more often than not, when the “special” time arrives, I pull out a container of pulpy, moldy berries, way past their prime. I am so eager to keep them as a treat that I don’t get to eat them at all.

So the people to whom I want to send “special” letters and cards frequently get nothing. There are still a few Christmas cards waiting to be sent to friends who deserve more than just a card or a routine newsletter. I wanted to give them my special attention and they still haven’t heard a word from me. Each day that goes by makes the task seem more daunting. The guilt piles up.

I am fortunate that like Susan’s acquaintances, my friends don’t hold it against me. And, like Susan, I know that it is a failure of friendship that can be rectified.