One of my New Year's resolutions is doing what I wish more people would do for me, which is not burden them with information that can only make them feel helplessly worse. I hate it when someone tells me their aunt has cancer and, golly, she's only 38. I don't know your aunt, but suddenly the spectre of cancer has invaded my day. Or when someone informs me that they were robbed and they have no idea who the criminal was. This leaves me impotently angry, or utterly paranoid about the thieves that surround us—a feeling that may last for days. Recently I was tempted to tell a friend about something depressing that I saw. I questioned my motives. What good could this information do other than to make him as despondent as I? I didn't tell him and realized that I too often convey information that has no cheering value whatever. This does no apply to relevant information between friends, shared problems, and needed advice. Nor does it concern news stories that are fascinating in their macabre aspects. No, this involves those haunting horror stories which affect persons you don't know who are related in some way to persons you do. "I just learned that my favorite cousin went into the hospital for a flu shot and got that flesh-eating disease." Of course, being human, I'm bound to slip up, but I give all my friends permission to call me on it when I do.
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