I’m a pro at the old “I’ll shout if I need help” fob-off. People offer to help our family all the time. I just never take them up on the offer because I don’t want to be perceived as vulnerable or weak or at some disadvantage that will see me booted down the social ladder faster than a pageant queen whose nude photos have leaked.
I have my pride, dammit. What I don’t have a lot of right now is enough money to get my special needs child into full-time residential care. And they only have one place left, and they are holding it for him.
It’s like your kid being invited to go to Michaelhouse, except you are a distinctly middle class family living in a distinctly middle class suburb in one of those cookie cutter townhouses and you’ve skipped your car’s last service. You shop at Woolies for a treat, but mostly you are Checkers people.
This opportunity was not something you press “pause” on. We spent almost two years finding the right “forever home” for Travis the Lionheart, and he is as happy as a tornado in a trailer park there.
Our fundraiser is a go. Bingo night. Boerewors rolls. And a promise that I would say “Yes, please!” and mean it when the offers of help roll in.
Asking for help is a squirmy business. It is not a simple transaction between two parties. The “taking” part of the “give and take” is fraught with feelings.
Guilt: “Why didn’t we plan our finances better? Have I failed my son as a parent?”
Anxiety: “Will anyone actually come to my fundraiser? What if the big night comes and there are only 10 people?”
Embarrassment: “Now everyone knows we are poor.”
I wish I could properly describe what this fundraising experience has been like for me: one of the most humanising events of my adult life.
It’s like standing naked in a room full of strangers, and then a pair of hands stretches out to drape a blanket over your shoulders.
Sometimes you recognise those hands, and you have a chance to reconnect with the person behind them, over a coffee or an email. Other times, it’s someone that never in a million years you would have pegged as a “giver”. In a few instances, someone you have never even met.
Much in the way tourists think that Africa is one country, I’ve discovered that “help” is a continent of many tribes.
There are the cheerleaders, who will spread the word and rally people to your cause. The practical helpers, who are hands-on and want to physically do something for you, even if it’s just sticking up posters. The behind-the-scenes types who donate anonymously and are almost shy about their act of kindness.
Asking for help is an essential part of the human experience. It strips you down to basics, so that you can feel the air on your skin. And then plants your bum in a bingo hall next to a bunch of people that really care about you. You’ve got to try it some time.
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