I was sick. Not sick as in the flu, a cold, a bacterial infection or a virus. I broke multiple vertebrae in my spine, and I spent many months lying flat on my back and looking out a sliver of window at a tree and a wooden fence. I’m grateful that I am mobile and returning to life now, but many people asked me at the time how they could help. And some ask now what they could have done.
When I was bedridden for a long time, my husband and I were also facing another situation: our landlord suddenly told us he wanted to move in and we had to leave. It was winter—cold, snowing—when the rental market was moribund, and our city was experiencing a terrible housing shortage. We had nowhere to move. At the eleventh hour, we scored a new home, and I could not participate in anything related to the move because of constant pain and immobility.
What happened was remarkable. Friends and also people I hardly know showed up to help pack, unpack, bring food, hang curtains, move furniture around, set up our office and kitchen. I was awash in gratitude that we hardly had to ask. Folks just knew what to do. I waxed ecstatic about community, connection, compassion, generosity, caring, sharing, and empathy.
I thought my situation was going to change, but it went on month after month, season after season. Good friends called and texted and emailed asking what they could do to help. I often said nothing, but sometimes I asked them to come and visit me. I found immobility and pain to be isolating, and I wanted people to talk and listen to. I missed the exchange of news, ideas, opinions, laughs, and sometimes expressing fear, anxiety, or loneliness. It was a comfort to speak my truth. When people came, it was also a break for my husband, who took care of everything and was a loving and always-present caregiver.
But as time passed, things changed for me. I began to think of friends who never or very rarely checked in to see how I was. No calls. No visits. No texts or emails. Once or twice, a few might call to ask if they could visit in a week or so. I said, honestly, that I had to confirm on the designated day to make sure I was well enough for a visit. One never called again. Another was angry that I couldn’t make a plan in advance.
I decided, after quite a while, to tell friends who hadn’t checked up on me or visited how I felt about it. I didn’t express anger or aggression, but I spoke frankly about my disappointment. Several said they found it too difficult to see me supine or that they didn’t know what to say when they contacted me. A few said they asked my husband how I was, instead of contacting me. One or two said they were just busy. One began to cry and said I had been there for her any time she had difficulties in life, and she didn’t realize she wasn’t there for me when I needed her.
I decided to forgive people for behaving in a way that I found selfish and self-absorbed. I tried to understand that my lying in bed made them uncomfortable. A few changed their behavior at once, and offered apologies, which I immediately accepted. But when there was no change in their behavior, there was a change in mine. I relegated them from “friend” to “distant friend” or “friendly acquaintance.” In some cases, I terminated the relationship entirely. For those who showed up for me, it deepened our relationship and I admire them greatly.
I have made some new friends, and I observe, at the beginning, if it seems likely I have a reciprocal relationship with them. That doesn’t mean tit for tat, but, rather, give and take, and having an awareness of someone outside of oneself.
I know that expectations about people lead to disappointments, and it is probably much more enlightened to have no expectations, but I do. When I need my friends, I count on them to be there in whatever way they can. But if they are not there in any meaningful way, I tend to evaluate the nature of the friendship. Friends are not necessarily in our lives forever.