Why asking for help is the best thing I've done in 2024
....and other takeaways from two weeks on my couch
Growing up, my younger brother had serious medical issues that saw him more or less living in the hospital. Every hospital stay increased the stress on my parents’ already fractured marriage, so I understood, without anyone having to tell me, that the best way I could help our family was by being self-reliant. As I got older, self-reliance became an attribute and my Achilles heal. I despised inconveniencing people. I hated asking for help. I got so obsessed with self-sufficiency that I avoided teamwork in all forms: competitive sports, co-creation, even playing board games. There was no lab partner for the Courtney of my youth. The greatest compliment I could envision as a young person was: “She did it all alone.”
Showing dependency on someone else is still uncomfortable in my adulthood, which is why, for my first nasal surgery for breathing issues back in April, I didn’t seek help outside myself. That surgery was scheduled at a time when my husband would be overseas jurying a film festival. I could have changed the operation date, but I refused to. I could have looked into hiring an outside aid to get me through recovery, but I’m too stubborn and too frugal. To friends’ inquiries of whether there was anything they could do to help, I assured them I’d be fine.
Well, I wasn’t fine. The recovery was awful. I wasn’t warned how challenging the post-op period would be—cones stitched inside my nose and covered up with bandages, no ability to breathe through either nostril, persistent bleeding out of my face, having to sleep (I’ll put “sleep” in scare quotes) upright for two weeks straight. You don’t need the gory details. The point is: my determination not to ask for help hurt me. It hurt me a lot.
There were complications from that surgery—one of the cartilage grafts went rogue and ended up compressing one of my nostrils to a point of near collapse, so a revision surgery was scheduled for November 19th. This time around, when friends asked if there was anything that they could do to help me, I’d been humbled by my April. This time, I said yes.
In addition to asking for help getting my daughter to school during the early days when I couldn’t be alone, the most important—and challenging thing—I did was ask a dear friend if she could set up a meal train for me. (If you’re not familiar with the term, a “meal train” involves numerous people signing up for slots to bring you meals that cater to whatever food restrictions you’re experiencing: in my case, I needed easily digestible, non spicy food that didn’t require much chewing.) Asking for such a thing wasn’t in my comfort zone. Number one, I was putting my friend out—she’s a busy editor with an ailing mother who has other sh*t to do. Secondly, I felt embarrassed asking for a meal train because this time around, my husband was going to be present during my recovery. I worried friends might find it ridiculous that I was asking them to cook for me when Diego was capable of cooking meals himself. But a meal train is the number one thing I yearned for to recover with. I remembered how life-saving (and life-giving) a meal train was when I had my daughter. How knowing that I was going to see Molly when she came by with a kale salad, or Chase, who was bringing homemade pizza, or Jeff who was coming by with a bottle of champagne, how those little visits and tubs of food in the refrigerator saw me through the molasses-slow hours of early motherhood. I wanted a meal train. I needed it. My friend set one up to cover the full two weeks of my doctor-mandated rest. Choo choo. We were off.
Because I live in a rural area that most takeout places won’t deliver to, we’d stipulated that the offerings didn’t have to include food. Sarah sent me a gift certificate to our local general store. My agent sent me cozy pajamas with the name of my main character embroidered on the lapel. Hilary and Kristine brought by beautiful flowers. Rebecca sent me a care package with lavender oil and shower steamers and the coziest of socks. Suzanne sent on my absolute favorite blue popcorn kernels from New Mexico and a bar of piñon soap.
And the food, it flowed on tides of friendship. Butternut soups and homemade bone broths and kefir for my gut health. The best chicken and tomatillo stew I’ve ever had outside of Mexico and the best chicken soup I’ve ever had or will ever have again. Every single day, I had something tasty to look forward to that I could eat with pleasure, something I could move toward as a reward for resting and sitting through the pain.
Yes, my husband could have made sure that I had meals ready, but there’s no reality in which he would have made fresh and interesting soups and broths for every meal. Diego’s not a soup guy. We’ve been together well over twenty years and I can’t think of a single soup he’s ever made. Plus, the fact that he wasn’t burdened with grocery shopping and food preparation meant that he could be a real partner on our couch. My recovery coincided with Diego’s search for a lead actress in a new feature film of his, so we got to watch films and shows and clips together, dreaming and scheming for his perfect lead. It was—dare I say it?— fun. Mellow. Even romantic, despite the facial bandages and my Ron-Perlman-as-the-Beast looks.
There was pain, yes—quite a bit of it—but thanks to the meal train, I enjoyed a full two weeks of radical rest that set me up for success going forward. If you are reading this and you’re one of the beloveds who brought me food and cheer, I thank you so much. I feel optimistic that this second surgery will erode some of my sleeping issues, thus improving the quality of my life. I’m beyond grateful to everyone who made it possible for me to fully rest this time around, and that includes you, subscribers, who stuck with me even though I wasn’t posting during these past weeks.
Post-surgery with the Royals
Other than enjoying the delicious meals my friends brought over, the only goal I had for my recovery was watching the entirety of The Crown, all six seasons, sixty episodes, over sixty hours of television. I accomplished this endeavor by myself because my husband hates historical reenactments and is categorically uninterested in the royal family. My cat didn’t come on board with my quest until season 5, but he was in it to win it with me from that point until the end. Here’s the cat in question (Diana got bad news):
I might have to write an entire post about what it was like dedicating two weeks to watching a TV show in its entirety, but in summary, it was INTENSE. I ate and breathed these people. As I healed, their emotional suffering got worse. I really went through it with the royal family, is what I’m saying. I started using British apormisms. I walked around the house muttering things like, “One might appreciate a spot of tea.” I traveled with the family on private yachts to the south of France and Malta and drank my own weight in (virtual) champagne. The entire first week of my recovery it poured, which was fitting because The Crown, being a show about the Queen of England, is a rainy program. If I’d been well enough to go on walks that first week, I might have done so with a headscarf tied around pressed hair just like the former Queen. Now that I’m well enough to venture out, I might start wearing brooches and old furs and drinking martinis at odd hours. (I think my favorite character is the truth-talking, boozy princess Margaret— but I’m not ready to call it, yet.)
Although screenwriter Peter Morgan wasn’t on my meal train, he’s probably the person who nourished me the most. With the exception of The Wire, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a television program that is as obsessively dedicated to the development of its characters as The Crown. I’m still processing the magnitude and meaning of everything I watched and learned from this fascinating series, but for now, I just want to say how grateful I am for good television writing. During my recovery, it hurt my eyes to read, so watching TV and movies was where it was at.
Other cultural takeaways from two weeks on my couch
The film adaptation of Elena Ferrante’s “The Lost Daughter” is spellbinding. Olivia Colman’s character is deeply complex— unlikeable but vulnerable (so you grow to like her) and the pacing is masterful, mysterious.
“Anora” —which won the Cannes Film Festival this year—is an absolute delight. If it’s still showing in theaters near you, run, run, run to see it. (Note there is a lot of sexual content, so leave the tykes at home.)
Another Cannes favorite, “Emilia Perez” is a phantasmagorical wild ride of a film. I’m a huge fan of the director Jacques Audiard’s work—but this film is totally different from anything in his past. It’s a bit like the 2021 rock opera “Annette” if you saw that, except filled with sexuality, redemption, and joy instead of sorrow and dread—and there’s no freaky doll. Emilia Perez isn’t a “Netflix and Chill” type of film—you need to make a proper evening out of it as it’s provocative and surprising. Let me know what you think of it if you watch it!
I hate to say this, but I’m so disappointed by Tana French’s “The Searcher.” I’m a die-hard Tana French fan but—maybe it’s the painkillers I’ve been on? Or the difficulty I had reading after surgery—this story just isn’t…going…anywhere. It doesn’t have the incredible main character development of French’s past novels , nor does feature the gorgeous landscape writing I admire in her work. I’m really having to push myself to finish it, which pains me to admit.
“The Substance”…what to say about this Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley vehicle that’s racking up Oscar nomination buzz? I hated it. My husband hated it. We only made it halfway through this overlit body horror saga before turning it off. The Substance, like many films these days, is very big on shock and very, very low on plot. It gives satire a bad name. If you want to see a difficult satire done right, see “The Zone of Interest” instead, based on Martin Amis’ 2014 novel by the same name.
“Scamanda” (podcast). This is a real page-turner of a podcast, and super well produced. The bonus material made up for questions raised by a dissatisfying ending, so definitely check out the bonus episodes if you go on this particular ride. Trigger warning: if you have lost someone to cancer, have cancer or have a loved one suffering with this grievous illness, don’t listen to this podcast.
Remember how a few weeks ago I shared that I turn to dark forms of entertainment when going through difficulty myself? That’s why the second podcast I listened to during recovery is as dark as Scamanda. “Noble” is a riveting podcast about a crematorium in a tiny Georgia town harboring a horrible secret. It’s a disturbing podcast that also leaves too many questions at the end, but I found it riveting.
That’s it for now. Yesterday marks two weeks since my surgery and I feel nicely on the mend so I’ll be getting back to our regular scheduled programming of writing and publishing advice soon. In the meantime, thank you to everyone who sent well-wishes these past weeks—I’m sorry if I missed a kind comment or question of yours while I was on my couch. If you spent time with your family during the holidays, I hope it was more manageable than not, and that you were able to get some good R&R in between helpings of turkey. (Special thanks to my pals Eliza and Bevan who brought me a full platter of Thanksgiving delicacies for me to enjoy while watching The Crown, season 5.)
With affection, and so much gratitude,
Courtney
P.S.: Watch, read or listen to anything neat over the holidays? Share in the comments!
responded to advice from doctors and friends that I
My memoir, The Year of the Horses, explores a year in my life where my obsession with self-sufficiency pushed me into a chasm that I couldn’t get out of without help.
An Achilles heel is an attribute that can lead to a person’s downfall, and my nearly life-long insistence on avoiding dependency on others is most certainly that.
This obsession with self-reliance got me into hot water the last time I underwent surgery for breathing issues in April. My husband was overseas jurying a film festival and rather than change the surgery date to a time where he could be home to take care of me, I flew my mother out from Florida so that she could take my daughter back and forth to school. Riddled with arthritis, my mom couldn’t offer more than carpool services, which I knew when I invited her. Somewhere in the back of my mind was the warning from a friend who had undergone a similar surgery that “recovery is going to be really gnarly, it might surprise you how hard it is. If you have the resources, you should look into hiring a medical professional to see you through the week,” but in addition to being obsessed with self-reliance, I am also thrifty, so of course there was no question of me hiring somebody to help.
This was a mistake. Not rescheduling the surgery, not securing someone mobile to help me. My friend was right, the recovery from that surgery was gruesome; it took everything I had. Which is why, when the surgery failed in one nostril and I learned I’d have to have a revision surgery, I decided to rely
My kids and I were sick last week and I watched the first five seasons of the Sopranos in like seven days so I really feel this. I finished the last season this week and still find myself answering "Whaddya gonna do" to most questions by friends or family.
Those first two paragraphs do read like you are talking about my personal "traits". As the only son of five, the middle child, and a late bloomer, I tended to avoid competition at all costs but enjoyed sports that tested personal resolve. I recently had my hip redone, 14 years after the recall. Hospital stays are torture...all these people swarming around taking care of you. I once went to therapy due to some anxiety issues related to work....and one of my other "traits" was exposed when the therapist suggested that I might be addicted to "chaos". While I endeavored to end the chaos with little success, the knowledge of the issue allowed me to continue in my methods free of the debilitating anxiety. So now with your perceptive opening, I have yet another "trait" I can compartmentalize and address 14 years from now (at 87).