Pathopoeia ( path-o-poy’-a): A general term for speech that moves hearers emotionally, especially as the speaker attempts to elicit an emotional response by way of demonstrating his/her own feelings (exuscitatio). Melanchthon explains that this effect is achieved by making reference to any of a variety of pathetic circumstances: the time, one’s gender, age, location, etc.
I was 84 years old when my hip stopped working, I contracted chronic double vision, started stumbling when I walked, a rash on my butt and lost my hearing aids. It was like my being was waiting for the right time to betray me. What else could happen? Later that day, a giant boil erupted on the back of my neck. The first order of business was the hip. But first, I went to my church. I figured it might be a good idea to ask for forgiveness for whatever sins brought the onslaught a maladies, and losing my hearing aids. The church was vacant, so I had the altar all to myself. I hadn’t been to church since 1970 when Donovan did a benefit concert there to aid the development of the “electrical banana” and used churches as venues around the US.
So, I took a swig from the bottle of cheap wine that was sitting there in a brown paper bag, got down on my knees and started pleading with God to restore my health: “I know I haven’t taken good care of myself, but at least I never took heroin or smoked or caught an STD. NOW, I’m only 84 and I’m falling apart. Please fix me. I am leaving $20 on the altar. I know you always need money. I will go home and wait for the miracles to begin.”
I took an Uber home and waited. Suddenly, I saw my hearing aids on top of the microwave. Then, I realized that’s where I left them. No miracles yet. No miracles at all. I was mad. I called the hospital to schedule my hip replacement surgery. They told me there was a one year wait. Now I was really mad. I decided to tell off God: “You are total bullshit. In fact, maybe you don’t exist. Maybe you’re a fairy tale like “Peter Pan’ or ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’ I am going to write another story: ‘The Man That God Didn’t Listen To.’” I finished my diatribe and headed to the kitchen—limping along—to get a beer.
My phone rang. It was the hospital. A person had cancelled their surgery, and the hospital had an opening they could offer me. The surgery would be in a week. I went back to the church and gave thanks and gave God another $20. I talked nicely to God. The boil and the butt rash went away. I am patiently waiting for my vision to be restored along with my gait. Maybe next week.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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