When people learned of my wife’s cancer, they all said, “Is there anything I can do?” or “Let me know if there’s some way I can help.”
Then most of them disappeared.
But not all of them.
My mom listens to me rant, rage and cry for hours on end. She consoles me and somehow always knows the right thing to say (or not to say).
My friend Bruce, whom I had fallen out of touch with calls every few days to check on me, to give me advice on hospice and to bounce around ideas to help my wife. His experience caring for his dying father for years has been an invaluable help.
My best friend Craig has been a sounding board, an advisor, a confidant and a counselor. I could dedicate an entire post to him and someday will.
My former coworker Jimmy surprised be by checking up by phone every few weeks – for month – even though we rarely talk otherwise and haven’t worked together in years.
After my mailman saw hospital equipment being delivered to my house, he stopped by to check on us and offered to help. Sure enough, today I needed his help to receive a package of medications while I was at the hospital and he was there.
A blog reader Steve, who sends comments of support.
The friends and family members who send my wife cards and letters have no idea how much of an impact these have made. Being able to read them over and over, respond during good days or just see the cards lined up on the table brings a small surge of joy to our hearts.
When my daughter died some people:
- Brought us food
- Walked the dogs
- Cleaned the house
- Planted flowers
- Shared stories
- Wrote letters of the good times they had with our daughter
- Called
- Sent Cards
- Visited
- Hugged us
- Cried with us
- Picked up groceries
It might surprise a lot of these people how much these small gestures meant to Ellen and me, even years later.
For those who didn’t reach out and those who did once but then disappeared, I understand.
I’ve done this myself.
Sometimes I didn’t reach out because I didn’t really know you very well and didn’t want to intrude. (The kindness of strangers and the least likely of acquaintances is always welcome).
Sometimes I didn’t know what to say. (It’s OK to say I was thinking of you or I’m sorry.)
Sometimes I wasn’t sure how I could help. (Chores. Routine activities. These things are hard to do when someone’s life gets turned upside down.)
Sometimes I was too busy with my own life. (It doesn’t have to take much time to write a note or make a call.)
Sometimes I felt like it was too late – that time had passed and I didn’t want to make you feel bad. (Wrong. I’ll always remember my loved one. It’s OK if you do too.)
Sometimes I was uncomfortable – I don’t like funerals. I’m not a people person. I’m not good at this. (There’s a lot of us like that. At my grandmother’s viewing when I was a little boy, a neighbor took me across the street for a hamburger. It’s my favorite funeral experience.)
I’d like to think I’ve learned better now. The next time tragedy or grief hits someone I know, I will try to show them I care.
I might even stop by. Do their laundry. Babysit the kids. Mow the lawn.
Or call. Write a letter. Send a card.
I can handle that.