Widowhood Asking for Help
Who knew how hard it would be to ask for help? Or, how important it would be? I learned the answers to these questions Christmas of 2000, two weeks after Mike died.
Christmas morning my seven-year-old daughter received from Daddy/Santa a model of a robot-arm. Mike’s idea behind this present was that he and Anneke would make a project of assembling it and in the process, Anneke would learn all sorts of real neat things about screwdrivers, wires and batteries etc. It was to be a bonding experience; they would grow closer, and she would learn those things that I could not teach. Great idea, in theory.
So Mike died and there we were, Anneke and I, with this robot arm. Or rather, the many unrecognizable components of the robot arm. (What had he been he thinking? This gift had not been my idea.) And yet, like most newly single mothers, I desperately wanted to be a good parent to my child, especially now that she had lost her Daddy. I had the somewhat distorted idea that I should now be mother AND father. So this robot arm assembly was something that I should not only tackle, but also complete successfully and triumphantly. Like a man.
On the other hand – I remember looking at the box filled with of what seemed like a million and a half parts and thinking that that there was no way that I was going to be able to pull it off. No Way. And, that this must be some sort of cosmic joke. Payback for all of those little household tasks that Mike had completed and for which I had not been adequately grateful.
But my daughter’s beautiful blue eyes looked up at me, full of both hope and fear. Hope that I could still be her mummy who would be there for her no matter what and fear that I might just dissolve in my tears and disappear in my heartache.
So I mustered my courage and declared that yes, we would indeed put this thing together. Not only would we assemble the robot arm but also the successful completion would serve as proof that we would be OK. It would be a sign. A sign that Anneke and I would not be defeated by the loss of our beloved father and husband. It became a point of honor for both of us – a sort of ‘we against the odds’ that we put it together and do it without outside help. I brought up a large worktable from the basement and put it in the middle of the living room, ready to receive the millions of itty-bitty parts and the book of directions that seemed thicker than the Bible.
Now, Anneke and I had (and still have) very similar temperaments. Prior to this we had not done well on projects we’d attempted together, possibly with the exception of baking Betty Crocker brownies. Hence, our first step was to make some agreements. My hope was that these agreements would insure not only a completed robot but also an intact relationship. The following agreements were taped to the living room wall.
1. This was going to be fun (damn it).
2. We would not ask for help (damn it). (Okay, I left out the ‘damn its’ – she was only seven.)
3. If either one of us was to get hot under the collar, we would both walk away until the next day when we would be calm enough to try again.
4. We would only work on it as a team.
Weeks passed. Between tears and everything else that needed to be dealt with, we found time almost every day for our robot. Seemingly, all went well. The robot was finally completed. It was time to push the buttons and make it do what it was meant to do. Pick up stuff.
Anneke pushed the button. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. How can this be? “Try again. Push it really hard.” Nothing. “Come on Anneke, REALLY push it.” Lots of quiet. Anneke did not look well. As a matter of fact, she looked scared. We were supposed to be able to do this, and we were supposed to be able to do it without help. If we couldn’t put together a simple a robot arm, how would we make it as a family? Were we doomed?
Finally, and very meekly, “May I call Dan?” I asked. I could tell by Anneke’s expression that she thought this was a very good idea. Dan was our neighbor who could do anything, and I mean anything. I made the call, and he was over inside a minute. He did the troubleshooting for our robot in two minutes, and our robot was picking up stuff in three. Anneke was happier than happy.
My enormous lesson was this. Asking for help did not diminished Anneke’s sense of accomplishment one little bit. Nor mine. This is key. Asking for help does not diminish you. When you ask for help, everything becomes easier, there is less pressure, less fear and shared responsibility. You are not in it alone. For the most part, people are happy to help. They just need to be asked, and they need to be given specific tasks. If you think there is no one to ask, I’ll bet there is. That old fellow down the street you never really spoke to, a teacher at school, the teenager across the way.
Asking for help requires that you let go of what others think of you. Asking for help is a courageous act. Model this for your children. Who knows when they might really need help? The more willing they are to ask for help, the more they will understand their own need to offer help when they are able. They will realize the blessings of giving and receiving. Yes, you may have been brought up to be independent. We live in a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps country. That does not mean it is necessarily right.
If you are getting offers of help, great. Take all the help you can get. If people are not offering help, don’t wait for them to offer. And don’t bother being mad that they didn’t think to ask. It is a waste of your precious energy. No one knows what you are going through. They don’t understand because they have not had the experience. They can’t understand it. You may not like it, but it is your responsibility to ask for help. Go after it.
Please visit www.widowsbreathe.com or click on ‘contact’ for more information about one-on-one coaching.
Mie Elmhirst, The Widow’ Coach
