Just Can’t Help Myself

Until recently, I thought one of the marks a professional single person was the ability to go through life without asking for help from anybody. When my married friends talked about their husbands’ sweet little gestures, such as scraping the snow off the car or carrying groceries up the stairs, I would smile and say “that’s nice.” But inwardly I would think, “That poor little soul. She cannot even carry her own groceries. She is totally helpless. Not me. I’m strong and capable.”

Doing everything for oneself is no small task, especially when you juggle as many activities as I do. The first week of February was especially busy. I was teaching at UCD and at Sylvan Learning Center in addition to my regular job, and I was on the planning committee for a large reading conference where I was also a presenter.

The Friday before the conference I was forced into a corner and had to ask my Dad to pick up some signs at the printer. I simply couldn’t make it there before they closed. It took several deep breaths but I was able to endure this tiny bit of humiliation because he’s my Dad. I trusted him, and I knew he would never divulge that I asked for help.

So, I went to work that Saturday where I planned to simultaneously design a web site for the conference, piece together my PowerPoint presentation, watch a video on F. Scott Fitzgerald, and prepare an associated study guide for my American Literature class. Also, my friend Beth was meeting me at school so that we could assemble chocolate roses for a book club fundraiser.

Unfortunately, when I got to my classroom I discovered that there were no batteries in the remote control. I couldn’t play the video! I couldn’t multi-task! With precious time wasting away, I decided to call Beth and ask her to bring batteries, which was positively horrifying. I had just asked for help twice in two days. Was God punishing me? If He thought I was going to make this a habit, He had another thing coming.

That Tuesday I was hit with an obnoxious stomach flu, which required me to call an emergency substitute and ask for help from virtually everyone on the planet. I had to email six different people at work to cover my meetings, make copies, find supplies for my students, submit my grades, and tackle a number of other tasks while I sat at home, powerless, with my head in the toilet.

But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I went to the conference anyway and tried to perform all of my duties despite the intermittent vomiting. My hotel roommate (a woman I had just met that weekend) totally forced herself on me and insisted that I let her bring me water and the trash can whenever I needed it. It was completely demoralizing, but I was too weak to protest.

The stomach flu held on for a week and was followed by a chest cold. Several friends brought me food and movies to cheer me up. I didn’t ask them to come. They just showed up at the door, and after they left I curled up on the couch in shame. Surely they thought I was weak and pathetic, unable to feed myself, unable to sleep or breathe through my own nose. I was an infant. An invalid. Next thing I knew, I would be sitting around in diapers getting spoon fed.

The following week was cold and snowy, but I was finally starting to recover so I felt pretty positive. I loaded my arms with bags and books and headed off to work. The second I stepped onto the sidewalk both of my feet slipped out from under me and I landed directly on my tailbone. Lying on the ground, I screamed for about five minutes but somehow managed to pick myself up. Parts of the bone probably dislodged and went directly to my brain, because I decided it would be a good idea to drive to work. It took 20 minutes to lower myself into the car and all the way there I wept profusely. I was in so much pain that I knew my only option was to cancel all my meetings, find another teacher to cover my classes, and ask someone to take me to the hospital.

Yet, while hobbling to my classroom, I thought about how ridiculous it was to be "driven" to the hospital. All of the doctors would surely point at me and laugh. “You can’t even drive!” they’d wail. “How old are you, twelve?” I quickly swallowed a handful of painkillers. “This isn’t that bad,” I told myself between sobs, “I can teach, run, dance – even fly!”

As it turned out I couldn’t even sit. For the next two weeks I had to ask everybody to help me with everything. My students had to hand me my purse, open the filing cabinet, and pick up my pen off the floor. My teaching partner moved my desks, stacked my books, made my copies, and did practically everything else apart from carrying me in and out of the building. My parents visited me. They cooked my food, cleaned my apartment, and put away my laundry. My friends drove me everywhere I needed to go. They brought me food and movies to cheer me up.

After two weeks my tailbone healed and I was the picture of health for three entire days, which I spent at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs. I had been given an award and was able to attend a conference there for free. However, when I returned home I received a disappointing phone call from the English Speaking Union, an organization that I had hoped would give me a fellowship to study in England. I was driving home from Fort Collins, saddened, trying to weather the rejection, and getting sicker every minute. By the time I got home I was hit with a bad sinus infection and a cough. Shortly thereafter my Aunt Janine died, and disappointment turned into heartache. My friends were praying for me. They brought me food and movies to cheer me up.

The sinus infection brought on a case of laryngitis and I completely lost my voice for three days. I had to take more time off work, and yes, ask for help yet again. Actually, I had to text message for help because I couldn’t speak. The next week was spring break and I figured it would be ruined. That was probably the low point. I felt isolated and depressed. I had asked for so much help by that point, there was no way I would qualify as a professional single person in any venue and definitely not in the Olympic games. With tears streaming down my face, I buried my head into the couch and prayed.

“All right, God,” I said. “I give up. Maybe I can take care of myself. But I don’t want to, OK? I admit it. I need other people and I need You.”

Slowly, my head started filling with images of the past two months . . . my mom hanging up my shirts and sweaters . . . Jessica at the door with a sandwich . . . my teaching partner stacking books . . . the girls in my dinner club, sitting in the car, praying for me. Something started to blossom in my heart and after a while I realized what it was: Pure blessing.

I never thought of myself as a selfish person. I help others on a regular basis and I know how good it feels. As it turns out, when I refuse to let people help me, I deprive them of that wonderful feeling, which is pretty selfish when you think about it. So, I want to close this story with one request. I say it without hesitation. I say it full of joy and full of praise. I say it to you, my friends, and I say it to God especially:

Help me!

Help me with whatever you like! Help me carry my groceries and help me wash my car. Help me fix the cabinet in the bathroom. Help me make my dreams come true. Help me figure out where to go on vacation and where to go in life. Help me run faster. Help me understand politics and help me cook. (Actually, that’s going a little far. Well . . . you can chop up the onions, maybe.)

Anyway, keep me company in the kitchen and make me laugh. I want you there, always.