"I'm a grown girl, Papa," she quipped. "I think I can make my own sandwich."
"What if I told you I knew you didn't need help? But that I did," my husband asked. "What if seeing you so grown up makes me sad? What if helping you makes me happy?"
Wow. It had come full circle.
Just a year ago, I sat with Biker Mike at his first doctor's appointment after the accident and surgery. The wounded circled the magazine table like battered warriors around a campfire. The room seemed to overflow with foot braces, casts, crutches, wheelchairs and the men tethered to them.
Next to each man, a friend or loved one sat quietly. There to help, but only if needed. Enough dignity had already been taken. Their thoughts were all probably the same. When will my life return to normal? Like my husband they avoided eye contact, not wanting conversation. The uncertainty of each new day now over-shadowed the colorful story behind their injury.
They needed help. Help with things they had done- just yesterday- by themselves. Without question. Without a second thought. I once heard my husband tell his sister that the hardest part was learning to accept help. And yet his first conscious memory of the motorcycle wreck was gratitude, as he saw help coming toward him.
Why do we say "no" so quickly when someone offers help? Why does it seem easier to help others than to accept help ourselves?
A year ago, my husband made his famous chili from a wheelchair. Once-Pinkie stood next to him, handing him the things he needed. Today they argue over who can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
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