Take in My Barrels, Please...

It's always nice to get some help and emotional support when you're going through a difficult time. But don't be surprised if the offers and words of encouragement don't start pouring in right away. People are busy with their own lives and their own problems.

Unfortunately, health has been an issue the last few years for me and my wife. I was surprised when some of our closest friends stopped calling. It was like we had the plague. My wife and I are both battling cancer, the modern-day equivalent, I guess.

When my wife and I were healthy, we called our friends all the time and received many calls from them as well. When we got sick, not so much...

A new friend I met through my blog, a much younger guy than me and a doctor, shared his unique insight. His explanation made a lot of sense. "People your age might not want to call because they don't want to be reminded of their own mortality."

The only thing worse than not getting calls or offers to help is getting offers from people who don't follow through.

A longtime neighbor, a retired nurse (RN), approached my son, who was staying at our house for a few days, and gave him her number. She told him to have me call her if I needed help once my wife came home from the hospital. My son said she seemed more than willing to lend a hand.

I called her, and she immediately eased my mind, telling me she could help with the IV meds. I was trained for 22 minutes at Brigham and Women's Hospital and expected to do infusions twice daily at home. Honestly, the thought of administering IV meds scared the shit out of me. She said to let her know when my wife was getting discharged from the hospital so she could be there to help me.

I called her when we had a discharge date. They give you a discharge date when you're first admitted and keep moving it up based on your condition. Because of room shortages, patients line the halls of ERs waiting to be admitted. Insurance companies further complicate the process because they don't want to pay. They get you out of the hospital as quickly as possible, sometimes too quickly, and the process becomes a revolving door...

The day before my wife was discharged, my neighbor called to say she suddenly had other commitments and couldn't help. She was in a community theatre group and wouldn't be available. I immediately became anxious. I'm not a nurse, and I never expected to have the kind of responsibility the healthcare system placed on me. I looked forward to receiving some help from a retired RN, but I get it: people have their own lives and get busy.

I had been driving into various hospitals every day for a year, depending on where my wife was at the time: Brigham and Women's (Boston), Spaulding Hospital (Cambridge), and Spaulding Hospital (Brighton). I drove close to 700 miles a week and got home late at night to an empty house. I would've done anything to get my wife home, and at that time, it meant taking on serious medical responsibilities and being the best at-home caregiver I could be...

I put on my big boy pants and learned quickly how to administer IV meds without any help. My neighbor didn't approach me or text for almost a month, and by then, I didn't have much to say to her...

We've lived in this neighborhood for 38 years, and other than my next-door neighbor, another retiree, who'll take in my barrels, grab my mail, and take the packages left on my front stairs into his house until I return home, there haven't been many others who have extended a hand. In many ways, the neighborhood has turned into a retirement community with just a few young families. Those of us who have been here a while are all in our 60s, 70s, and 80s...

Bad news travels fast. Another neighbor down the street, a guy I cycled with years ago and hadn't spoken with in quite a while, went out of his way and stopped by one morning to offer his help. He's also retired. He said he could go food shopping or mow my lawn, anything to help. He seemed sincere.

I've never felt comfortable asking anyone for help, not wanting to feel like a charity case. But when I was in the hospital for 10 days straight with my wife mid-summer, I knew my lawn had become overgrown and needed to be mowed. I couldn't do it. I had to be in the hospital when the doctors made their early morning rounds so my wife and I could ask the right questions and make the correct decisions. That meant sleeping in a chair next to her and not going home. Boy, did I stink!

I texted him and told him what was going on. As awkward as it felt to ask for help, I told him I needed to take him up on his offer and was hoping he could mow my lawn. He said he'd be happy to help out.

After he looked at my lawn, he texted me that it wasn't as overgrown as I thought. He even suggested that someone might've mowed it. Maybe one of my other neighbors had done it for me. I wasn't home. I didn't know.

A few days later, I went home to shower and get some rest for the first time in 14 days, and my lawn looked horrible—embarrassing. It was overgrown and long overdue for a mow.

I texted him and asked if he was still willing to help with the mowing. He said he was, but it was so hot he thought the grass would burn if he mowed it. Then it rained for two days and got hot again. A few days later, he said he couldn't do it because he had minor surgery and had to stay out of the sun for a couple of days. I understood completely.

A few days after that, he was gonna do it. It was the perfect day—not too hot and no rain in sight. Then, at the last minute, he texted to say he couldn't do it because of a family commitment. I texted him back not to worry; I had freed up some time to do it myself. By then, the grass was so fucking high I had to raise the blade and mow it twice...

Now, when someone says, "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help," I spare myself the grief and don't respond. Really, what's the point?

I always joke that when I die, at least one of my good friends I hadn't heard from in years will shake his head at my funeral and say, "I meant to call him..."