Accepting Help

For me, asking for help has never been easy. I learned to do it first around 10 years ago when I had problems with rheumatoid arthritis. Mostly, the help I requested involved travel (asking men to hoist luggage, pick up luggage from the conveyer, carry heavy scuba gear, etc.). Even that was difficult at first, but it became easier as I realized that nearly all men like being asked for help, at least by women. It makes older men feel young and younger ones feel - well.... young and strong, I guess. They all strut a little when asked; but don't get me wrong - I am gracious and grateful for every bit of that assistance.

Beyond the chores of travel, I didn't ask for much help. I was raised to be independent, I cherish the idea and the reality of independence. And now - now, post SCA, post implantation of the Cheney-type device in my chest, I have a myriad of restrictions. So many, I posted them on a calendar with their respective countdowns. To create the illusion of control.

No lifting my left arm over my head (6 weeks); no lifting more than 10 pounds (6 weeks), no golf (varies by swing length - seriously!), and the big one due to having lost consciousness - no driving for 3 months. (Another day, I may be able to talk about the permanent no scuba rule, but too soon yet).

No driving 3 months, or 74 days now. The American essence of independence. I am fortunate in so many ways, and now one more - I can afford to hire someone to drive me around, at least for the major appointments. Or as we say in the South - to carry me around.

It grants me the illusion of independence. There is such a difference between taking kindnesses and paying for the rides.

I am far better at the latter. I pay for help more comfortably than I accept it.