It is a kindness to accept another person’s kindness

Two observations: Life goes on, and none of us are alone.

The life goes on part: While my husband, Brian, was in the UCSF hospital on Parnassus, it felt like time stood still, like all the dry cleaning and dog grooming was on hold. So it would amaze me that people still got haircuts and talked about the new episode of “Loki” or whether the Phoenix Suns would beat the Milwaukee Bucks.

During Brian’s procedures, I’d sit in his room and text updates to friends and family. Sean Dorsey, a choreographer who worked with Brian for a decade, texted back to ask what we might need. A ride? Groceries?

I had no idea. I was spending all my waking moments in the hospital, so I didn’t know what was left in the refrigerator. Hadn’t been in the house for 10 days, except for troubled sleeping. Left on their own, my sons Zane and Aidan would navigate past all the broccoli and Greek yogurt to subsist on Hot Cheetos and Sunkist orange soda. I knew they hadn’t starved yet, but while riding out this crisis, I couldn’t say whether there was any milk in the house, or, if so, how old it was.

Sean texted: “I’m setting you up on this website. Your friends will figure out meals.”

I panicked. I’m not very good at people being kind to me. It’s a holdover from my parents, Nurse Vivian and Pop, and the “Greatest Generation” ethic that “we don’t take charity.”

But partly it’s me. I feel like I’m not worthy.

At first I thought no, I can’t accept this, but with me being the only mobile adult to hand out prescriptions, assist with dressing changes and do laundry, I wasn’t doing any good cooking chili at midnight just so there would be a meal in the house.

When Brian came home to the blue bungalow in the outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior, it was with instructions that he should lie in bed with his foot elevated and absolutely not walk. The doctor didn’t want to ruin his good stitches with Brian’s noncooperation. So the basic prescription: Shut up and get fed.

Aunt JJ showed up with lasagna, Aunt Helene with cream of cauliflower and lemon bars, Terry AstenBennett with chicken noodle soup. And each night, as we sat at the table and said grace, we were grateful for another one of our friends, for another meal. For SASB, or my fairy godsister, or Deidre, or a girl named Larry. It came as no surprise to me that the boys liked Aunt JJ’s cooking better than mine.

Crazy, I know, but for a man who’s lived his life with the model of chosen family, I was astounded at how many people chose the FisherPaulsons.

Here's how I made peace with my guilt over accepting gifts: sunflowers. A deputy I work with brought a fistful of helianthus, bright yellow rays of petals, brittle green stalk and velvet brown florets. I must have frowned, because he said, “They’re from my garden. Free. If you didn’t get them, the raccoons would.”

The same day, a dancer friend also left a halfdozen sunflowers at our door.

It was then I knew that Brian may be on the disabled list, but he remains a dancer by virtue of his relationship with movement and with other dancers.

It wasn’t just Brian who lost a toe; it was a community. The dancers considered Brian to be the most surefooted of their ranks, and now he was only ninetenths surefooted. That community needed ritual to mourn the passing of the toe, to break bread and tell stories before we could all walk back to the new normal together. And while the dancers took care of him, the deputies made sure I had sunflowers.

This was the lesson we needed to teach our sons. Neither Zane nor Aidan know how to make anything more complicated than instant lemonade, but they can pour that glass, take care of their Papa. Be part of the circle.

And this is what my community taught me: Some days it is a kindness just to accept another person’s kindness.

I panicked. I’m not very good at people being kind to me. It’s a holdover from my parents, Nurse Vivian and Pop.