Lisa

Last week felt like a heavy one where the burdens and needs were plenty. Weeks like that are overwhelming for me because I feel deeply the hurt and pain of others, when I don’t close myself off to it. I can easily bury my head in the sand and pretend all’s right with the world, but sometimes, it is harder to ignore.

As a hurricane approached the East Coast, we watched the news, a limited practice because all of us are affected emotionally by what we see and hear on the television. Sometimes we just need to turn it off. Watching the preparations, I could feel the fear mounting, but what brought tears to my eyes were the people preparing to help. A parking lot filled with emergency vehicles and the Cajun Navy headed to the area made my heart swell with hope. Trouble was on the way, but so was help. And along with the help, hope.

This is the thing that makes all trouble bearable, or at the very least endurable: the hope and the help. And I’m not talking about well wishes (although that can be hopeful) but the actual practical hope that shows up in bodies.

I have not given up on the goodness of people yet.

I watched on television this week as firefighters gave every effort they had to save a family whose house was crushed by a tree, and I cried with them as they grieved when they could not bring the rescue they had hoped. My heart bent with compassion toward those who were stranded in their homes when the rain and flooding came. I may have once wanted to criticize their decision to stay, but I know better now. I know that evacuating comes at a financial cost and maybe there is no place to go. And I believe that no life is more valuable than another. We do not abandon people to a dismal fate because of their choices, whether made in ignorance or poverty.

Humanity shows up for each other. It is what keeps our hearts soft and makes us more human.

—

I can never decide if hospitals are extraordinary places or ordinary places. I feel like God is near when I’m there, but I know how easy it is to avoid them. Hospitals are crisis points, usually, and every patient a reminder of how frail are these bodies. How easily they break, how one day they’ll fail us in the most basic of ways.

At the veterans hospital where my husband receives care, these feelings are magnified as every patient has a common thread, a story that runs deeper than the surface. I’m aware of this and sensitive to it but not always prepared. When I’m there with my husband, we are often on the low end of the age range, although not as much anymore, and sometimes I think this means I should have more strength or availability for people, but last week my capacity was low.

My anxiety was simmering under the surface from the start, but within minutes, we saw two people we knew from our former years living in that area, and one was present for the duration of my waiting room stay. I had planned to spend the waiting time with books (I brought three because you never know!) and writing. Hurricane coverage blared from the television and I tried to find a quiet spot to refill my tank, but I was soon joined by two men who were waiting for one of them to be called back. I tried to subtly turn away but I am no good at rudeness. (Or boundaries with strangers. I hate conflict of any kind, so it is often my M.O. to squash my own needs when someone else’s presents. Please don’t use this against me.)

When the man with the appointment left, his companion started talking to me about what I was writing, and he asked me a billion questions and told me all about his life, and I saw my “me time” sliding away gradually. He needed to talk, I guess, and I am like a magnet for people who need to talk. There must be something about me that lets people know I will listen, and I am not really sorry that I’m this way, but I wasn’t prepared for it this day. I excused myself to get some coffee but went to talk to my friend at the desk. I asked her if I should move my car from the front of the building to the parking lot closer to where we were, and she encouraged me to leave and take my time.

The chatty fellow sitting next to me caught on, though, and he also needed to move his car, so he walked with me. I must have been giving off some vibes because he asked if he was being a pest. My heart squeezes tight at questions like this because I never want to make a person feel bad about themselves. I told him, as honestly as possible, that he was very talkative and I wasn’t prepared for that and my own worries were elevated which makes me less patient. Or something like that.

We parted ways in the main parking lot, and I sat in my car for a few minutes, taking deep breaths. I did not want to go back to the waiting room and listen to what felt to me like idle chatter, even though this man was a two-time cancer survivor who started a writing group for other survivors. (If you think me a horrible person while reading this, I will agree!) I circled the parking lot a few times and then pulled my car into a spot reserved for the department we were in. And I breathed a sigh of relief when I didn’t spot my new friend in the waiting area. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down with a book, still shaking a bit from the stress of it all.

Later, after we were home, I messaged my actual friend who worked at the desk and thanked her for her effort. Having someone in my corner made it more bearable. And that was just the beginning of our weekend. Friends stepped in on all kinds of levels to help us through this minor trial. They showed up at our house early on a weekday to get the kids ready for school so we could make the drive to the hospital. They showed up on the weekend to take one or both kids so I could get some rest from all the caregiving. They showed up in texts and messages asking how we were doing.

And our story isn’t an exception. I’ve watched from afar as a friend’s family struggled with difficult news this week and how people have surrounded them. I’ve watched people in North Carolina take care of each other. And I’ve watched people on social media offer their help and experiences and homes to people in need.

These are not small things and they make the trying times better.

—

I am old enough now to know that we cannot escape the trying times. They will come, sometimes with warning, like a hurricane, and sometimes not. And for any of us to get through them, we will need other people.

I’ve been thinking about all the help we’ve received from people over the years, and I’ve concluded that we are so far in debt when it comes to kindness received that we can never pay it back. We will only ever pay it forward with no expectation of return.

Because there’s no predicting where the next trial will be, where the next needs will be. All we can do is vow to be the kind of people who show up when it’s our turn and do what we can, whether it’s something obviously heroic like rescuing people from flooded houses or subtly heroic like keeping someone’s kid for a couple of hours so they can rest.

We can all ease each other’s burdens, especially if we take turns. I cannot always shoulder someone else’s burden, but when I can, I will. And I will look around to see who can be there for me when I need it most.

This is how we go on when the world and its problems overwhelm.