While you were away

what does it mean to need each other?

Apr 17, 2025

Hi, readers of the intangibles! I’m Allison Kirkland, and this publication was created to celebrate and explore the world of creative nonfiction and the writing life. I’m so glad you’re here.

In March my husband Paul flew halfway around the world for a two week business trip. He’s made this trip a few times before and I always dread his time away. Mostly because I miss him. But also because it reminds me that I sometimes need help and that I was going to have to speak my needs out loud to the people in my life.

My husband's love language is "acts of service" — my favorite — and because we are married and ours feels like such an equal partnership, asking him for help has never felt hard. But I often feel out of practice and out of my depth relying on anyone else. These two weeks were going to catapult me out of my comfort zone.

During his time away I would be taking care of some small tasks that usually fall under his purview because even though I can do them, it’s just easier for him and leaves more energy for me; things like taking out the trash, washing the dishes (those big slippery plates are unwieldy in my hands), feeding the cat, cleaning her litterbox and dealing with any gardening needs.

Most importantly for an extrovert like me, I was going to need extra company.

My community showed up for me. One evening I was invited over to my brother's house to have chili and cornbread, and that night I got to watch my niece read for the first time. She was so excited, and I felt so proud as I helped her sound out the few words that made her stumble.

I invited myself to my other brother’s house for homemade bolognese and his kids were so excited that I not only came for dinner but that I spent the night. “I can’t believe you’re actually spending the night,” my 5 year old niece kept saying. “I just can’t believe it.” Her excitement made me feel like I was doing them a favor; not just taking up more space. I got the best wake up call the next morning: my two nieces, running up the stairs and jumping on the bed with glee.

When a friend of mine was having a tough day she brought over gin and tonics and we sipped them outside in the mid-March sun. She told me she felt like a drag for not being in a better mood for our meetup. I told her I was relieved to step into someone else’s life for awhile.

I asked my Aunt Debbie if she would come stay in the guest room while Paul was gone. She lives nearby and we see each other fairly often but this was the first time in a while that we'd spent a big chunk of time together.

My Aunt is single by choice and extremely independent. Last year she retired from a career teaching math at a local public school, and she moved out of the house she’d lived in for 25 years. So she was spending a lot more time alone at this juncture in her life, after a lifetime of being surrounded by students and neighbors.

Aunt Debbie and me at her retirement party last March

I didn’t think much of it when I made the invitation, but spending time with her over those two weeks made me think even more about the ways we can care for each other.

A few years ago my Aunt was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. She can do most things, but, like me — someone who lives with a limb difference and shortness of stature — there are some manual tasks that take more effort. Together we were quite the team. Neither of us could do everything, but there were certain things I could do more easily and certain things she could do more easily and together we could do almost everything we needed to do to keep the house running.

We both have limited hand dexterity but I have more trouble holding a knife safely so my Aunt cut my grapefruits in half in the morning (we both agree that there’s nothing better than grapefruit in the winter). Her hands are shakier so I helped her clasp her seatbelt in the car. She doesn't drive at night anymore so I ferried her to a few places she needed to go in the evenings. And when my shower head got knocked out of alignment by the cleaners she was the only one of us tall enough in the house to reach up and fix it. When her walk was tentative and unsteady because her medicine hadn't kicked in yet, I helped guide her down the front stairs. On the second week when I woke up to a bug on my windowsill she showed me how to suck it up with a vacuum cleaner. (After a few years of living alone in my twenties how had I never thought of that?)

In the evenings we picked up takeout and watched TV. She introduced me to Finding Your Roots. I introduced her to the first season of White Lotus. We were both already fans of All Creatures Great and Small. We rehashed old stories and reminisced. I heard some stories I hadn’t heard before, stories I was so excited to know.

She was less lonely during that time, and so was I.

In my youth and adolescence I was the only visibly physically disabled person among my family and friends. I didn’t necessarily need more care, but I did need care in different ways. I am small, so I needed a lot of help reaching things, sometimes even in my own home. Sometimes I needed help opening heavy doors. I had more doctors appointments than most kids my age. And I was overwhelmed by the thought of driving a car, so I needed rides from friends and family for many years.

Nobody ever told me this directly but during these years I frequently felt like the burden, like the one who needed “too much.” When I looked around me and noticed that others didn’t seem to need the kinds of help that I did, the meaning that I made from that is that I had too many needs. But now I’m starting to see that past version of myself as part of a vast ecosystem of care that’s available to all of us, and that we all benefit from. What experiences, what types of connection, did I enable people in my community to have, that wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t need a different type of care? What gifts are we all receiving, simply because we need each other?

I thought of all the people I’d seen while Paul was away and how I’d felt like a real part of their lives as I saw the small details of their day. Maybe this is how we should all be living?

When Paul arrived home I was ecstatic, ready to have him back. We went out to dinner when he’d recovered from jet lag, to a favorite Greek restaurant. We ordered an entree to share: lamb kofta. When the waiter delivered the platter to the middle of the table I watched as a familiar scene took shape, one that always makes me smile: Paul carefully began cutting the meat into thin slices. When the meat was cut he placed a few of the slices gently onto my plate and a few onto his.

“Thank you for always cutting my food for me,” I said, thinking back on the last two weeks, on the things I’d done for others, and what they’d done for me.

“I love cutting your food,” he said, as he looked up and caught my eye, smiling. “It makes me feel like we are really sharing every part of the meal.”

the intangibles

While you were away

what does it mean to need each other?

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