Asking for Help

I pride myself on being independent and self-reliant. When I was about two or three, I told my mother, “Don’t help me, I do it myself.” Little Miss Independent. But during the last part of Bill’s illness, I did ask for help. I asked friends to mow the grass and clean the pool and sweep the patios. They filled the bird feeders and repotted plants. The gardens were so filled with weeds that in desperation I sent an e-mail pleading for help, and eleven friends showed up to weed. Bill was very impressed, I think by my chutzpah.

But in the three years since Bill’s death, I have been reluctant to ask for help. I suppose partly I don’t want to impose on people’s good will. I don’t want to be needy or a burden, the widow who constantly sends out pleas. But sometimes I have to ask for help. I struggled for hours trying to replace a light switch, and finally called a friend. He did the job in less than ten minutes. I tried to jump start the pick-up truck with no success, and called my neighbor for help. In trying to fix a clogged sink drain, I was stymied by a pipe that I couldn’t loosen. My friend Joe had no problem—but I was the one who cleaned out the line, so there.

I think it is easier for me to ask for help from my women friends. Why is that? I asked one artistic friend for help in re-hanging pictures in my newly painted bedroom. Another friend drove me to the hospital, waited for my tests to be done, and then drove me home again. If I need a ride to pick up my car at the service station, I call the woman next door or my women friends who live nearby.

Yesterday I asked a friend from church to trim some low-hanging branches on my maple tree, to prevent the squirrels from dropping onto the bird feeder. It took him fifteen minutes. “Happy to help,” he said, when I thanked him. Maybe that is what I need to remember when I ask for help: my friends are happy to help. And I am lucky to have so many friends.

Note to self: It is not wimpy to ask for help when I need it.