Why I’d Rather Crawl Than Ask for Help: A Chronic Illness Reality

I’ve never liked asking for help. Not because I’m trying to earn some kind of gold star in martyrdom or because I believe I’m the only competent human on Earth. No, it’s simpler than that: by the time I explain what I need, I could’ve just done the damn thing myself—twice.

Need a ride? I’ll drive myself.

Heavy groceries? I’ll make three trips.

Traveling? I’ve got an entire system that would make an airport shuttle driver weep.

Before COVID, I flew out of state four times a year. I’d rent a car from the AVIS up the road, drop it off at the airport location, hop on the AirTrain, and be at my terminal in under ten minutes. Reverse it when I land. No one gets inconvenienced. No one gets stuck waiting. Especially not me.

Medical procedures? Same deal. Unless anesthesia is involved, I drive myself. When sedation is on the menu, my wife—who is a magical being of patience and precision—takes me. But recently, she had a scheduling conflict, and I needed someone else to play chauffeur after a procedure that knocked me out cold.

Enter: the Always Offering Acquaintance™.

You know the type. Always says, “Just let me know! I’m happy to help!”

So this time, I did. We gave them two weeks’ notice, carefully outlined the times, and asked with all the politeness we could muster.

They said they were thrilled to help. “No problem at all.”

(That’s when the anxiety started whispering, “You sure about this?”)

Fast forward to the night before the procedure.

Suddenly, their day is packed. They’re juggling meetings. They’re “reworking” their schedule. I offered to take a car service.

They insisted: “No! I’ve got it covered.”

Spoiler: They did not have it covered.

The next morning, they came screeching into my driveway like they were trying to win pole position. I barely got the seatbelt clicked before we were rocketing down my narrow, hilly street at 50 in a 25.

“I’ve got plenty of time,” I said.

“I don’t,” they snapped. “I have to get back for a client.”

Oh. So this was the vibe. I was the burden. The inconvenient errand.

At the drop-off, they barely slowed down long enough for me to unbuckle and tumble out.

And when it was time for pickup?

The medical center called.

They said, “Oh… uh… now’s not really a good time.”

But guess what? The clinic wouldn’t let me take a car service post-anesthesia. Liability. So I waited.

Two. Hours.

They eventually showed up, sat in the car waving for the nurse to hurry up. You know, like I was curbside with carryout sushi and not a woozy human in a wheelchair.

The car ride home was more of the same—impatient, fast, and full of “You owe me” energy. When we pulled up, I barely got both feet on the ground before they sped off without a backward glance.

And that, my friends, is how I learned (again) that just because someone offers help doesn’t mean they’re equipped to actually give it.

So here’s the new policy:

If my wife can’t drive me, I cancel.

Full stop.

I’m not risking my sanity—or safety—on anyone else’s flaky generosity.

Let’s Talk About It:

Have you ever regretted accepting help? How do you balance your independence with the need for support—especially with chronic illness? Drop a comment or subscribe to the blog. Misery may love company, but solidarity is what actually gets us through.