Showing up at the hospital
On donating blood, asking for help, and why recovery never moves as fast as we want
I’m at the hospital to donate blood.
A friend has leukemia, and needs blood donations and visitors. I found out via a text sent by someone spreading the word.
Six months ago, I suspect I’d have shown up. But prior to the fires, I may not have felt the same urgency or the strange sense of relief I felt today. Like I’d found a way to give back like so many gave to me earlier this year. Given the chance, I reacted with the “this is what we do” attitude that so many took earlier in the year.
Have I been re-trained over the last months, or just reminded? Showing up for others isn’t something new in my life. Or maybe better written: feeling like I should show up for others isn’t something new. (That tension between what my mind tells me I should be doing and what I actually might-should be doing merits a whole separate post!)
If you are able, consider donating blood.
You can donate to the hospital where my friend is fighting here, or find a place close to you. It matters more than you realize.
For me, it was the fact that people showed up earlier in the year. Everyone did. Without being asked. Without hesitation.
That lives in me now. It created an urgency, an insistent responsibility. To live up to what was done for us. Maybe to show I’m worth the support we received? Maybe I’m trying to even the cosmic balance of what has been granted vs what has been paid back?
There have to be dozens of people in my wider orbit who are carrying quiet struggles. They likely need things, including stuff I could provide were I aware.
But today was clear. My friend needed something specific. Maybe she’d slot me into that category I’ve written about: folks who wouldn’t have been on the list of expected helpers. A few months ago, she might not have guessed I’d be one of the ones to show up.
But somehow, the world gave me a chance to be there today.
It sounds strange, even cliché, to say I feel grateful for that. (Thanks for having leukemia so I could show you I care?)
On the drive over, my wife called. She knew I was headed to a hospital. She knew that while the fires were over, the cancer my mom is facing has not stopped. She knew I was walking into something familiar in a different shape.
When she asked how I was doing, something opened up. I had not been crying. I had not known I was close to tears. Her question made it surface.
It felt like being a kid in the backseat, watching raindrops gather on the window. If you tap the glass, even lightly, the drops break loose and stream down. That is what it felt like. Nina’s voice tapped the window and everything I had been holding back moved. My friend’s diagnosis. My mom’s illness. The memory of my cousin and my brother-in-law, both of whom survived leukemia.
Before we hung up, Nina said one word. Claridad. Clarity.
We have said that to each other for almost twenty years. It started with my closest friend in graduate school. Celina, from Argentina. When I headed to exams or challenges, she would call after me, claridad. You do not need luck. You need clarity.
That phrase lives in our house now. It traveled with me to Buenos Aires earlier this year, encouraging me to listen more closely. To pay attention to the rhythms of a place. To see people more clearly.
That is something I do well. I pay attention. I watch how people move through the world. I notice how they carry their burdens.
That awareness helps me connect. But like every strength, it has a shadow side. Sometimes I move from awareness to overreach. I anticipate too much. I try to manage or control what is not mine to manage.
After Nina’s call, I stopped for coffee. Outside the coffee shop, an older man carefully open his car door with a cane. A younger guy walked up and asked if he could help carry boxes into the UPS store.
When I came back outside, I thanked the younger man for his kindness. He looked surprised. Not just that someone witnessed it. That someone thought it worth noticing.
“It was nothing,” he said. That phrase won’t leave me alone!
Earlier in the week I spoke with someone who has spent the last three years helping his town in northern California to recover after the Prairie Fire. We talked about lots of words that start with “R”: Recovery, Rebuilding, Resilience. He added rejuvenation to the familiar list. Because towns lose more than structures. They lose people. Businesses. A sense of momentum. That part takes longer to come back.
This conversation unlocked something for me. We impose a task, a burden when we ask others what they need. We force them to define the need, often in times when it’s tough to answer.
I’ve written of my gratitude when others anticipated what I needed, when they offered specific things to help.
But if we’re not careful, we take something from them by assuming. We risk rushing in with our own solutions, trying to remove the friction. And in doing that, we erase agency.
At times it’s necessary to ask what someone needs, and wait patiently as they sort out how to answer.
I’m learning how hard it is to determine what I need, sometimes harder even to ask. Especially in the wake of trauma. But I also see now that sorting this out it is an essential part of the work. It’s mine to do.
Importantly, it isn’t my job to control how people respond when I state my needs. That’s their part. My part is to answer honestly when someone offers. To stay in that hard moment. To trust that clarity, even when it takes time, is better than silence.
I’m also learning to be more patient with myself. Coming out of something like this takes longer than I expected. Most people don’t bounce back. They rebuild slowly, rejuvenation coming only over time. I’m still the person I was before, just layered differently now. I’m still learning what I need, still figuring out how to carry it, and how to name it. I don’t always get it right. But I’ll try to keep showing up.
My friend is still in the fight, though with a difficult road ahead. Luckily, her online sign-up sheet is filled for the week ahead, reminding her that she’s not alone.
On the podcast this week
That same tension, between asking and assuming, between offering and imposing, runs through the last three episodes of Shared Ground.
What does real help sound like? What does it ask of us? How do we know when to offer it?
You can find the episodes here:
If this resonates
If this post or the podcast resonates, I would love for you to share it or subscribe.
And if you have had a moment where someone showed up for you or where you had a chance to do the same, I would like to hear about it.