What's wrong with my help? Part ll

Everyone loves a heart-warming story on a Friday.

Remember how only a few days ago, I was feeling a bit unwanted and un-needed? In spite of all your comments, and Husband’s insistence that receiving help is easier than giving it, and we Help-Accepters make a valuable contribution to society? Well, it just so happened that I heard that a woman who was unbelievably kind to me last summer, was having a tough time. Her baby had pneumonia, and a partially-collapsed lung.

Let me give you a bit of background. This woman is a single mother, has three children aged 1, 2 and 8, with a demanding job. As if that wasn’t enough to fill her days, when she heard I was doing chemotherapy last summer, she emailed me to say “I know we don’t know each other very well, but if you felt comfortable with the idea, I’d love to take your children out for the day”. So she left her own two youngest with her nanny, and took her oldest and my three to the zoo for the day. They had a lovely time. She brought them home in the evening, with two chickens ready, in disposable baking tins, to go into the oven.

It’s not that I feel I owe her something, because I know she did it from the generosity of her heart, and not in hope of anything in return. But I did feel, when I heard her baby was ill, that I’d like to help. Didn’t know quite what to do, though. She always looks like she's walked out of a fine-dressing catalogue (even when going to the zoo... even when returning from the zoo, come to think of it, which is remarkable), and seems like one of life's copers.

It just so happened that I bumped into her at the school door. I said I was sorry to hear about the baby, and we chatted about that. Then, armed with the great wisdom and perception of 20 bloggers who commented on my previous post, I asked

“Could I bring you dinner tonight?”

And in the second in which I could see she was hesitating, I added

“It really wouldn’t be a big deal. Honestly. Let me just bring you dinner.”

At that, her shoulders sagged, and her face seemed to drop an inch or two.

“That would be lovely. I haven’t slept for days,” she replied.

It wasn’t lovely, actually. The dinner, I mean. It was very mediocre. Hm... Probably not even mediocre, because in my “wouldn’t be a big deal” moment, I hadn’t focused on the fact that between 3.30 and 5.00 (when she said they usually ate), I not only had to make the dinner, but also go and get 5-yo from school at 4.00 and drop 12-yo at a play rehearsal at 4.30, both of which would be 10-15-ish minute round trips, and probably go to Dillons too, then drive the 10 minutes to her house. You do the math. So it wasn’t a great culinary triumph, but this is what I think. When someone brings you dinner, it doesn’t really matter what they bring, so long as it is edible. It’s the fact that you didn’t have to think about it. You didn’t have to conjure up thoughts of food from the maternal brain-whirl that accompanies having an ill child. You didn’t have to do anything except put the dish in the oven, or open the packet. And - more importantly - someone cared. They cared enough to bring you soggy baked potatoes, tepid bacon, a packet of shredded cheese which you probably have in your own refrigerator anyway, some salad which you probably also have, ill-travelled broccoli, unimaginative yogurts, and a bar of Godiva chocolate (especially the chocolate).

That’s what I think, anyway.

And here’s something else I think. One of the things I love about blogging is the way little bits of empathy and smidgeroos of insight get passed around, and help us on our way. Writing that post on Monday, and hearing your thoughts, made me a little better at dealing with the situation when it arose again.

I knew you’d like my Friday story. Better go, because I’ve got things to do before picking up the kids from school – my own, and my friend’s 8 year old too. She’s coming for a playdate.