I'm Doing Right ... I'm Just Doing it Wrong

My grandfather died on my mother’s birthday. Moments after receiving the sad news about her dad, her doorbell rang, and there was a giant bouquet of flowers with a big birthday card from me that read, “EVERYTHING’S COMING UP ROSES!”

Because awkward is what I do best.

When my sister-in-law found out her mother was dying of brain cancer, I called to express my sympathies. We talked for awhile, and our conversation circled back around to life and kids and careers. And speaking of careers, I told her, my job is KILLING ME.

Kind of like brain cancer! Except I have to drive to it.

Then this past February, a dear friend of mine passed away. In the days that followed, I watched in wonder as a circle of amazing women swooped into action, surrounding her grieving family with homemade meals and helping hands and love. Instinctively, they knew all the right things to do and say, and together, they set out planning the most beautiful memorial you could imagine.

Desperate to contribute, I offered to help however I could, despite the enormous void in my own death management skills. I don’t, for example, know how to cook things like casseroles, or food. I still hold my breath when I drive past cemeteries. And I’m scared of coffins. But other than that, I’m totally here for you!

When someone suggested we hand out balloons after the service and release them in tandem, my heart leapt. Finally, I thought. Something I can be in charge of! With the intensity of a method actor, I threw myself into the role of balloon sleuth, calling local suppliers for pricing, weighing the pros and cons of renting a helium tank, and diagramming strategies to cram six dozen balloons into the back of my Toyota Matrix. It felt so good to be useful!

No sooner had I completed my mission than someone pointed out the environmental hazards of releasing balloons into the atmosphere. Not to mention the fact that it’s illegal in some states, thanks in part to a pygmy sperm whale named Inky, who had to undergo six emergency surgeries after swallowing a Mylar balloon he evidently mistook for a jellyfish.

It’s not enough that our friend died. Let me take out some marine life too.
And then there was my phone call to my late friend’s husband just to let him know I’m here for him and his girls. For whatever he needs. Day or night.

I made him write down my home number.
And my daytime number.
And my cell phone number.
And I told him again and again to please keep me posted on his needs.
Whatever they may be.
Even if it’s the middle of the night.
“I’ll do anything,” I gushed. “Anything you need. Sleep-overs, even.”

He burst out laughing. “Really!”

I stopped short. “I sound like a hooker, don’t I?” 

I hung up the phone that night, marveling once again at my awkwardness, and also hoping. Hoping that I never have the chance to get the hang of this.