A Hand on my Shoulder

Three weeks after having both my left palm and elbow slit open for surgery to release compressions, I got on the bus and headed to my first physical therapy appointment. This sounds like a very grown up thing to do. But I didn't feel very grown up.

While I was getting ready, the fears that I’d been ignoring for days wormed their way into my awareness. Two of my fingers had tremors. A couple of them hurt much more than they had before the surgery. And the pain in my forearm had come back now that I’d stopped taking the pain meds. Would I ever regain normal use of my arm? Would I be in pain for the rest of my life? Was having the surgery even worth it?

At one of the stops a group of young people got on the bus. I don't know how to be politically correct about this, so I'll just say it was apparent from their physicality that they all experienced intellectual challenges. Each of them proudly tapped their discount card on the fare box, paid their dollar and a quarter, and bounded down the aisle to find a seat. Except for the last person – a slight young woman in a pink parka juggling an umbrella and her purse.

No matter how she slid her dollar in, the machine spit it back out. The man behind her, apparently the chaperone, gently placed his left hand on her shoulder. It rested there while she tried repeatedly to insert the bill. The energy of his intention was palpable.

I watched as she calmly took the bill and reinserted it. Again. And again. And again. Until, finally, the machine accepted it. As they passed me on their way to find seats all I could think of was, “I wish somebody would put their hand on my shoulder.”

I gently reached over and put my right hand on my left arm in an attempt to calm my own self. While I appreciated the effort, it didn’t mitigate the tears, and although I felt a bit calmer, I really wished someone was sitting next to me.

Put on your big girl panties and deal with it, I heard a voice in my head say.

That’s how we’re taught to be adults isn’t it? Which makes the line between being an adult asking for help, and a grown-up being a baby, a razor thin one.

I could’ve asked someone to go with me. But I didn’t. Why? Because I’m an adult dammit. I can handle it.

Here’s the thing. Being able to handle it alone and choosing not to are two completely different things. I did handle it. I made it to the appointment. I discussed my fears with the therapist, albeit a bit more emotionally than I intended. I left feeling comforted by her assurance that everything I was experiencing was normal.

So what’s the problem? I deprived myself of the “hand on my shoulder.” I didn’t have to suffer the way I did - experience the anxiety and fear, and most of all that debilitating feeling of being utterly alone. There were people who would have gone with me – driven me even. I was too committed to being an “adult.”

Eight years later, asking for help still isn’t my forte. But I do it. It’s a form of self-care that can feel be challenging to practice because of the narrative that remains within me - asking for help means: I’m weak, I’m not independent, __________________ (fill in your lie).

But the Universe has a way of providing opportunities for us to do the things necessary to become our most authentic selves, and I find when I ignore them, the situations presented grow more intense until I give way.

The connection I feel from receiving help and support - like when I moved out of an apartment I’d live in for eight years - deepens my appreciation for the people in my life. Ironically, it strengthens my sense of worthiness. Ultimately, it makes life easier. And with the big 6-0 approaching, I will do almost anything to make my life easier.