We had dinner last night with friends who live on their own and are in their late eighties — active, smart, irritating and kind friends, who are like family since they have been part of my husband’s landscape since he was a kid. They are failing, rather suddenly, both physically and mentally. They are, essentially, family, and no matter our differences over the years, we love them. So, we want to help. The question is: How?
On the one hand, it’s not officially any of our business. On the other, as human beings and neighbors, we are all interconnected and we affect and are affected by each other. If we haven’t learned that this past Covid year, we haven’t been paying attention AT ALL.
There are hurtles to what we view as helping: they have always been extremely active and independent; they have no access to public transportation; they have actual family who are in dispute over whether or not they need help.
And yet, yesterday evening it almost seemed as thought the husband was showing us that he knew he needed help, that he was recruiting us, not to come take care of them, but to help them make a decision about a change that they would most likely fight tooth and nail, and that at least one of their children will likely work hard to block. Rock and hard place come to mind.
Even when it’s your own family, it can be difficult. My brother and I completely agreed on the situation my father was in before he died — terminal cancer, should not have been driving, married to an alcoholic — but we totally disagreed about how to tackle the problem(s). We stumbled along, sometimes working in concert, sometimes arguing, (i once hung up on him in the midst of his giving me a lecture about how wrong I was — it felt very good), and praying that our dad wouldn’t hurt anyone before he shuffled off this mortal coil. That was the biggie for us both. No stranger to strong drink, blind in one eye, with only one arm and one leg operational, he should not have been driving. Even when my brother took away the keys, our stepmother let him drive her car.
In the fullness of time, our dad made it out of this life peacefully — I was with him — without hurting anyone, for which my brother and I were both grateful. There was no malice in our dad at all — there was fear and denial and perhaps selfishness, but no malice. Which is true of our friends. (And possibly most of us).
We were lucky. Our stepmother later died in a single-car crash. I was grateful it had not happened on our watch.
“Watch” is one of the operative words in this: we have not figured out any way to actively help our friends — except to be there. So, when she drives to our house several times a week and bangs on the door, I walk the yard with her for a while. When invited, we go to their house for dinner and help to cook, clear up, listen to oft-told stories and answer the same question six times. It doesn’t feel like enough, or even the right thing. But it’s what we can do, and that may be what love and support look like.
Nancy Taylor Robson 
My parents are long gone, but like you I still run across those who need some help. I think there are many of us that do what we can. Thanks for the perspective.