HATING HELP

At first the pain in my shattered ancle wasn’t close to being the worst thing about being home. I can’t do anything on one leg…I’m useless. And even menial tasks like visiting the bathroom has become a Level A military operation.

I’m sure there’s no such thing as a ‘Level A’ military operation. I’m sure they’re all LEVEL A. But inability to visit the bathroom like a normal person is Level A, so let’s forgo the fact-checking…

Apart from near pathological independence, I also loath people in my house. And when you can only move like a one-legged sloth, you need people in your house. Because let me tell ya, if you drop a crutch, you better have people in your house or you better have Terminator-strength knees.

During the last 48 hours I’ve learnt to ask for help. The question: What can I get you from the shop? is no longer answered with: Oh I’m fine, but thank you so much for asking. Now it’s passionately confronted with: I’m craving orange juice, if you don’t mind, thank you so much.

But I’ve found that it’s never just orange juice that lands in the fridge. It’s orange juice, and six other juices and yoghurt and some fruit. My friends’ generosity humbles me. And I’m left wondering: if they were to get hurt, would I have been this wonderful?

I feel a little silly to admit that I wear my independence as a badge of honour. But I’ve discovered that you discover much more magic by letting go and accepting help when offered, and allowing your vulnerability to move others to help out. That helping out, I’ve found, is a warm, fuzzy glue that binds me tighter to these unforgettable people that are in my life for reasons far beyond deserving.

I just hope they don’t feed me to the point that the other ancle spontaneously fracture under the weight…

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