By Jacquetta Szathmari

Sometimes pride makes it difficult for us to accept help even when it is needed.

I once offered my seat on the Subway to an older woman carrying heavy bags. I offered her my seat and assistance with her bags and was surprised at her refusal. I did not understand her reaction until many months later when I was recovering from a serious surgery. I could have used help while recuperating—but pride is a powerful force.  

Doing it On My Own

I had been diagnosed with fibroids and I was more afraid of the aftermath than of the surgery itself.

I was told that, post-surgery, I would need someone to look after me, and to help me perform daily tasks, for two full weeks. In my arrogance, I thought that wouldn’t be necessary.

The day after my surgery I knew I needed help when I was unable to roll over. My inability to do this simple thing quickly alerted me to the bigger problem: I was going to need help, and I wasn’t happy about it.

I was certain that my frustration, bitterness, and anger resulting about my newly-acquired mobility issues would drive away even the most dedicated caregiver. So in the interest of preserving my friendships and my burgeoning romance, I called the one person I knew who could do the job- my Mom.

Mom’s Help

The first days at home were undoubtedly the worst. I was weak from the operation and drowsy from medication. I relied on my mother for both physical and moral support around the clock. My mother helped me to brush my teeth, comb my hair, and dress in the morning. In the evening, she helped me into bed with a hot meal and changed the channels for me while I searched for my favorite shows. She treated me with such care and dignity. I should not have felt any shame in asking for or accepting the assistance that she was willing to give.

A mix of guilt and pride prompted me to convince her that I no longer needed 24 hour supervision and she returned home after just ten days.

The Workout of the Century: Getting Dressed

The moment my Mom left I decided that it was time for me to demonstrate my independence. The plan seemed simple. I would run 3 errands; mail a package, order take out from a restaurant down the street, and buy a 2 liter soda at a convenience store.

After struggling to get on what I thought was a non-complicated outfit (A V-neck T-shirt and a jean skirt), I had to sit down and take a 15 minute break. Whew!

Still at home, I decided to abandon going to the post office when I discovered that the items I wanted to mail were in a box on a shelf above my head.

Not only was I unable to reach anything on a shelf without a ladder, I was too weak to get a ladder.

Forgetting about the post office, I decided to continue on with the next two errands: order take-out, and buy a soda at the store.

The Outside World

I went to the front door of my apartment where I encountered yet another problem. The locks on my door became formidable foes in my weak and shaky hands. After a few minutes of struggling, I managed to open both locks but was unable to lock more than one behind me. I told myself that was OK, and that it would save me time on the return trip.

The elevator was a breeze and soon I was in the foyer. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult after all!

My quick exit was thwarted by an uneven flight of stairs leading down towards the main part of the foyer. I initially refused to rely on the banister for support, then made the decision to grasp the handrail too late and almost fell and ended up on the floor.

I made it over to the enormous steel double doors leading out of my apartment complex into the street (they never seemed so large before) and leaned upon them with all my might- which was not much - to get them open far enough to slip though.

As I stood in the hot sun on the landing in front of my building I felt victorious until I saw the sidewalk before me. I felt like a contestant on Survivor. It was a perilous obstacle course with cracks and tree roots threatening to fell me at each step.

The Path of Least Resistance

I took the path of least resistance and walked in the road rather than the sidewalk (I know that isn’t usually the recommended route for safety, but in the ease of convenience, you do what you have to do); then deftly scaled the curb at the corner.

I fought my way past the double doors at the Sushi restaurant, and ordered lunch to go through labored breathing. I barely had the strength to speak, let alone transport food back to my apartment, so I changed my order to delivery and walked back home—abandoning errand #3—the soda at the convenience store. That 2 liter bottle might as well have been a 2 ton weight.

I decided I didn’t need soda; tap water would be fine.

My return trip back home took even longer because my already weakened state was even weaker.

By the time I arrived at my front door, haggard, I was met by the delivery guy from the Sushi restaurant—the one down the street from which I had just ordered. He had been waiting several minutes. It took the restaurant less time to prepare my meal and send the delivery man to my house than it took me to practically crawl home.

I gave the delivery man a tip and he gave me a tip as well.

“You should let people help you out,” he said.  

Just as soon as I get my pride out of the way, I thought to myself.