In the aftermath of my dad’s ALS diagnosis and subsequent passing, I’ve had so many people tell me some iteration of “Let me know if I can do anything to help.” While I know this is virtually always said with the best intentions, it is, ironically, unhelpful to hear.
First, that meant I had to come up with a task that I thought could help me, at a time when my mental fog could’ve rivaled 1800s London. Then, I needed to convince myself the person wasn’t just being polite and would genuinely be happy to help.
Sometimes what I wanted to say was “I would really like to order an obscene amount of takeout, can you send me a DoorDash gift card” or, “This pair of shoes I’ve been eyeing would truly spark some joy in this particularly joyless era of my life, if you want to buy them for me.” But those types of requests didn’t feel like they fell within the purview of what people meant by “anything.”
Even just talking extensively about my dad’s illness or passing sometimes felt like I was monopolizing conversations, or that I was creating emotionally taxing situations for others who didn’t realize what they’d signed up for.
I don’t harbor any ill will towards anyone who’s hit me with a “here if you need me”; I’m sure if you search my text history, I’ve used it as much as anyone. But, if there’s a positive takeaway from the last three years, it’s this:
I truly don’t think you can understand the death of a parent until you go through it, and I am grateful that I now feel better equipped to help my loved ones go through hard times. And while grief is incredibly unique and personal, I noticed people who had been through similar experiences had some extra insight when offering support or condolences.
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For instance, my sister’s mother-in-law sent my mother a care basket six months after my dad’s passing, understanding that by then, the initial surge of help and comfort would have dwindled. She wanted my mom to know that people were still thinking of her, which my mom was incredibly touched by.
So I try to take into account what I’ve learned, and I’m now more conscious of being clear and direct when I offer help. If I feel the urge to say, “Let me know if you need anything” (which, yes, despite that long diatribe I still have that instinct), I try to offer tangible examples of help I can give instead.
I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Do you want to FaceTime and rant about it? Or do you want a distraction?
Are you traveling for the funeral? I can cat-sit.
Do you have any phone calls to make or emails to write that I can take off your plate?
I know it can be hard to remember to eat during times like this – can I pick up groceries or drop off takeout?
I also try to make it clear that I am very sincerely offering my help and they shouldn’t feel bad for taking me up on the offer (maybe other people are more well-adjusted and less anxiety-ridden than me and this doesn’t factor in for them, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to remind people).
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Your well-being matters to me, and I’d love to help in any way I can.
It would really mean a lot to me to be able to support you right now.
Please don’t worry about imposing — I really want to help you.
I don’t think these offers are a magical fix-all. I can actually confirm via a firsthand report that, while delicious, copious amounts of Chinese food delivery from the Michelin-star restaurant in my neighborhood—courtesy of my lovely friends—neither cured my dad’s ALS nor my dour mood. But it did help me in that moment. And in the long term, I still remember it as a representation of the incredible support from those around me. Specific, sincere offers of help made a real difference for me, and I intend to continue paying that forward.