Things slip between cracks.
.
Arthur wears crumpled shirts to school.
We cut the legs off Audrey’s tights to make them into shorts.
Orson tells me he likes his toe poking through his left trainer.
.
The tax return is unfilled.
The MOT has run out.
Your bank account still open.
Your phone contract in arrears.
.
Birthdays unplanned.
Presents unbought.
Cat unvaccinated.
Boiler unserviced.
Oven filthy.
.
We eat a lot of beans.
.
Hey Siri
On Tuesday at 6am remind me to order the shopping.
Audrey
Don’t let me forget to get your bike fixed.
Hey Siri
Remind me to
Pay the window cleaner
Worm the cat
Reply to Olivia’s birthday invitation
Buy bread.
.
The garden is overgrown.
The cars are filthy.
And broken down.
.
I am in newfound awe of singe parents.
.
I grasp some gestures of help like lifelines.
Others I don’t.
There’s no rhyme or reason.
But seemingly the more specific the offer the easier it is to say yes.
.
So I accept the five free yoga sessions from your studio.
I use your left over credit with the personal trainer.
I am given free massages by the health centre.
.
I take a fresh notebook from the self and write ‘meal planner’ on the front.
But that’s as far as I get.
.
So I cash in vouchers for frozen meals.
And use up the gifted credit at your favourite food hall.
Accept soup and cottage pie and lasagne from our neighbours.
.
I’m lonely.
Especially at night when we would have wrestled the kids into a respectable bedtime and then lay side-by-side, feet touching, reading, until i turned my light out promptly at 10.30pm and kissed you good night.
.
So I take up friendly ears
answering calls from new friends and old acquaintances
and talk about you.
.
There’s something about a warm almost-stranger who never really knew you.
You’re new to them.
.
I find I am unsurprisingly particularly partial to the comforting company of the middle-aged women we know.
.
I struggle to be around couples.
.
I begin to realise what you meant when you told me people want to be asked.
It’s an exposing effort
but with you in my head
I begin.
.
I reach out and request support with logistics and emotions.
I delegate and outsource jobs and joy.
I write an email to everyone we know and list five ways they can help.
I post on LinkedIn
and ask my network
and my network’s network
to spread the word:
human for hire.
Hundreds offer help.
.
This all feels huge
which in turn then feels silly.
.
The response is humbling.
Many hands.
.
The kids start walking themselves to school.
Their friends’ parents make them tea when I can’t.
The headmaster accommodates them at after school club.
.
I begin replying to hundreds of emails and whatsapp messages and voicemails and comments and letters and cards.
I barely scratch the surface.
But it’s a start.
.
I fend off the anxiety of our unsustainable financial business model for just a few more months while I graft.
.
Your gym buddies come to garden
Your sister makes me dinner.
And stays over when the kids want her to.
.
We are sent brownies and books and love letters and song lyrics and money and memories and kind thoughts and invitations to lunch and free holiday homes and subsidised counselling and pizza vouchers.
.
I call on your mum to add Wednesday dog-care to her ever-growing schedule of support.
Your dad and my mum and my sister are there whenever we need them.
.
My brother visits from Australia and he and my dad build me a log store out of old pallets and unconditional love and it is probably the most beautiful gift I have ever received.
.
I start thinking about Christmas.
.
My friend J. writes to me with clear eyes from the sidelines of the sidelines.
Watching my pain without being able to do enough about it except tidy around the edges.
It’s akin to what I felt caring for you those two years.
Like sweeping up ash from the edge of a volcano.
.
A balancing act
between reaching out
and respecting boundaries.
When does space slide into neglect?
Companionship to over-communication?
.
Like her, I don’t know.
I don’t know that I have enough bandwidth to even try to answer her.
And I guess that’s hard for everyone.
.
I need help but don’t want it.
I crave space but can’t face it.
In truth, there’s probably a part of me that is testing myself.
We are a unit of four now; we have to know we can do it alone.
And whilst the waves of support are so deeply appreciated
as ungrateful as this sounds
constant gratitude does bring its own kind of exhaustion.
.
So we push on
clinging to each other like a human raft
held afloat by many hands
against a current that pulls us constantly into the pain of the recent past
trusting that at some point
the tide will change.
Previous > On Coping #60: Just another day
On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer.
It begins in March 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.
On Coping is the story of what happened next.
You're in a particularly gnarly position around asking for help. We've grown up in a society that values independence over interdependence, individualism over connection, and that pressure is particularly imposed on males, who need the connection and the interdependence the most.
It's a bfd to reach out and ask for help - it takes vulnerability and authenticity. There's huge power in those two. It's also massively important modeling for your kids when you do.
And yes to highlighting the ease in responding to specificity over vague offers of help.