The Pressure of Help in Hard Times

By Claire Zulkey

Not long ago, an acquaintance of mine — a barely-40 mom of three young kids — suffered a heart attack, and on top of that, lost part of a limb after incurring compartment syndrome. While we’re friendly, we aren’t close, so I was not in her circle of immediate help. After the event,  I asked a mutual friend what the family could most use. She answered honestly: They needed to be left alone for a while. Someone created a Meal Train, and offers of help had poured in, but above all, the woman and her husband needed time to find their new equilibrium and get on with life as they knew it. 

I understood — to some extent. While not nearly as life-shattering, when my husband, kids, and then I tested positive for COVID a few months ago, I shared the information on social media to let people know not to hear or expect much from us for the next few weeks. 

Offers of help and concerned texts began to pour in, which was humbling, touching, and strangely embarrassing. We don’t really need this, I thought to myself. It wasn’t like we had a death in the family or our house burned down. But, as a wise friend of mine once said, the world is a bucket — you put in what you can so that you can take what you need without overthinking it. So I got over my pride/guilt and gratefully ate the food people left and used the GrubHub gift cards people sent. It made my life a lot easier to end the days without meal prepping or dishwashing. 

But in between gratefully communicating with loved ones and getting to the business of tending to my husband and facilitating my kids’ e-learning was an old feeling I hadn’t encountered since the start of the pandemic — the overload of responding to the texts, the anxiety of being in constant contact. It felt rude not to reply to those who checked in, yet doing so diverted time away from meeting deadlines, feeding my family, walking my dog, doing laundry, tidying up, etc. It felt strange to feel so stressed out while locked in the house with nowhere to go, to feel a little overwhelmed by love. I decided to skip keeping track of who sent what and didn’t mail out thank you notes, which I’m sure would make my mother cringe.

Earlier in life, I didn’t know that asking “Can I do anything?” is rarely helpful. It puts the onus on the person in need to figure out how to best delegate work. To simply be given help or to have a more narrow offering (“Can I drop off dinner tomorrow?” or “I’m at Walgreens — do you need anything?”) requires a lot less mental work. I felt less embarrassed saying “I could really use a Diet Pepsi” to someone standing near a cooler than someone who might not be anywhere near a Diet Pepsi. 

But even when I got better at knowing how to help others, people sometimes didn’t respond to my offers, which felt like a strange dangling participle, eventually making me realize the inherently selfish nature of offering help. 

It sounds paradoxical to say that helping is selfish. It’s not the same as demanding credit for donating, say, a library wing or a kidney. But it’s a karmic settling of balances, to be able to sleep at night knowing that somebody had a crisis and you, a good person, did your job by leaving a Tupperware of chili or sending flowers or making a donation in someone’s name. When my friend T’s father was dying a few years ago, she flew home to Chicago and slept at my house while she shuttled from our home to the hospital and then to his apartment to settle his affairs. I tried to stay out of her way but stood by with hot coffee in the morning and sleeping pills if she needed them at night, the offer of a short walk around the neighborhood for some fresh air. She, of course, thanked me, but I felt so grateful to be able to be of use. 

As I get older, I realize how impossible it is when someone suffers a tragic loss — not a temporary illness like ours — to be the help you want to be. At times, I think guiltily of my friends who have lost parents or spouses and know that they will be sad about it forever — on the death anniversaries, holidays, and the loved ones’ birthdays, at random moments. I think of them and feel bad for not checking in more regularly, that I may look like I dusted my hands, thinking, “Well, I did my job, and now that the funeral’s over, that’s over.” 

I know now as much as I want to help, this is about me, my desire to look and feel like a good person. Maybe it’s related to the pressure girls and women in particular feel to be the Good Friend who shows up at the drop of a hat. However, as my friends who have experienced acute loss have told me, it’s not always the Good Friends who step up when you need it. Sometimes the people you expect most to help out will remain radio silent, and those you would never expect will offer a profound piece of grace. Not everyone knows if you need help. My mom stayed radio silent while we had COVID, which hurt until I realized she just figured I needed time and space. Additionally, people aren’t all affected the same by the same losses. The loss of a pet, relationship, or job may shake someone the same as the loss of a parent, child, or spouse might stun someone else. 

As we get older, the sadnesses of life simply pile up. Everyone is going to lose someone dear. There’s no way to eradicate anyone’s pain, no matter the amount of lasagna you bake or surprise Amazon deliveries you order. As noble as it may be to offer help without expecting a thank you, there’s also grace in humbly accepting that you can’t take away someone’s sadness. Talking this piece over with friends who had experienced grief, they recalled the tiny and large graces that came their way in their darkest hours but that no one thing that made it all better. As one friend told me, the best way to be a friend in a hard time is just to be a friend all the time.

Claire Zulkey is the founder, writer, and editor of Evil Witches, a newsletter for “people who happen to be mothers.” Subscribe here.