Problems, who me? No- Let’s Talk about You

I am a chronic “helper”.  There, I said it.

I suffer from the “in-denial-about-home-issues” and “all-over-other-people’s-problems” syndrome.  I hope there’s a name for it, cause I just ran out of hyphens.  I’d much rather help someone else with their stuff, than deal with my own most days.  It’s a form of denial, I know, but I still do it.

And now, for a short segue:

I grew up in a household full of medical know how.  My mother is an LPN, my grandmother was an RN.  Both of my parents had periods of their lives while I was growing up that they were First Responders (rural equivalent to EMTs that get there before the ambulance).  I even had a stint as a CNA at a nursing home,  as well as working in a grouphome setting for developmentally disabled adults for a while when I was younger. 

I don’t profess to have a LOT of knowledge about all things medical *laughing*, far from it.  But I do know how to ask the right questions, where to look for answers, and I know the value of “getting there quickly”. I have a strong Good Samaritan gene streaking through my DNA.

Back to the topic at hand:

And so, even though there are times in my life when I just want to crawl back under the covers, hide under tables, whatever, when a friend tells me that there’s trouble a’brewing in their lives? 

I’m all over it.

I’ll gladly chuck my own problems over my shoulder, race wherever my spidey senses tell me the emergency is, and pitch in till everyone’s safely out.  “Here, let me help you with that – What me?  Problems?  No, Let’s talk about you.”

Example:  Recently, an old friend and member of my “chosen family”, someone I consider like a little brother from my younger years, told me he has a serious medical condition.  Without going into details, let’s just say that my spidey senses went haywire, and threatened to fry my little ant brain.  Needless to say, all my own problems jumped to the end of the line, and I went all “medical commando”, trying to get as much information as I could, asking questions, and telling my friend to call me anytime, any day, no matter what.  If he wanted someone to prop him up, I was his gal; if he needed someone to kick him in the hind region to motivate him, just whine; and if he needed an ear to vent to, or a shoulder to cry on, I’d get some clean tissues.

And, when he tried to dissemble and say that he was “going to be fine”, I called Bull.

Told him not to blow smoke there, and to stop worrying about me worrying about him.

He told me that I was the first person to tell him to stop worrying about others, the first person to say that we (his friends and family) have to handle our upset over this on our own, and that he needs to be selfish and think about himself first. 

Yeah, it’s that kind of serious.

Yes, I’m upset about it.  Yes, it scares me right down to my toes, and I pray every day that the treatments work.

But that’s my own emotional crap.  And he doesn’t need to hear it. 

So, I wait.  And I hope.  And Nurse Brea sits at attention, ready to fly.