Аманда Палмер - The Art of Asking; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help

When I finally went back up the beach to the case, the last of the revelers were packing up their blankets. What I saw was shocking.

My ukulele case was filled with offerings—about $400 in rumpled bills (including a few twenties), flowers, love notes, and loose change. But that wasn’t what shocked me.

What shocked me was this: in my flakiness, I had left my cell phone, keys, and wallet right in the case, in plain view.

And nobody had taken them.

So. Right around the time of my insomniac meltdown as the sun rose and the sheep mourned before that Scotland family wedding party, I had also been battling a nasty urinary tract infection. By the day after the party (which went fine, by the way) it had morphed its evil, sneaky way into a full-blown kidney infection. I found an emergency health clinic in the rural Scottish Highlands to treat me.

Before the nurse gave me the extra-high-powered antibiotics I’d been prescribed, she asked, was I allergic to anything?

Nope.

Was I pregnant?

Not a chance.

Taking any other medications?

Well… I wanted to make a joke about how she might want to refer me to a psychiatric professional, because I felt like I was losing my fucking mind , but she looked so nice and Scottish and helpful.

She handed the antibiotics over.

They worked. The kidney infection cleared up within a few days, which was good: we’d rented a big place in Edinburgh for a month to accommodate a ton of houseguests, plus Neil’s kids, plus my band. I had a string of shows booked, and a bunch of rehearsing to do to start prepping the Kickstarter recording. We’d been looking forward to this monthlong working vacation for a while, anticipating a nonstop parade of dinner parties, theater outings, and spontaneous fringe-festival adventures.

But I wasn’t in the mood for fun. My body hurt, my soul hurt, my skin was breaking out, and I’d been listlessly staying in bed. That wasn’t like me. That night before the family wedding party had frightened me, and I couldn’t shake the crazy-feeling. One afternoon, while Neil was off doing press and all our guests were off at fun fringe activities, I didn’t have rehearsal and decided to peel myself out of bed and go for a jog. It was a frigid, foggy day, the type you keep thinking just shouldn’t happen in the month of August (no matter how many times you’ve been to Scotland). I stepped outside, bundled in running gear, a sweater, and a scarf, and started to run. I felt the life force slowly oozing back into me. I looked like shit, I felt like shit, but goddammit, I had left the house. I took a deep breath, looking at the beauty of the old Scottish architecture, and felt my mood finally lifting.

Four blocks later, I slipped on a loose brick of the sidewalk and twisted my ankle. Badly.

I lay there sprawled on the bricks, emitting a small moan, while ready to explode with laughter at the poetry of it all. Really?

I couldn’t put any weight on my foot. I was going to need to ask a passing stranger for help. I had nothing on me—no phone, no money, just my house keys. It was a quiet street, but a woman about my age wearing a smart raincoat saw me and stopped to help. Then another woman, an older one, stopped as well. My fellow humans were coming to my aid.

You all right there? one of them asked.

No—actually, I’m not , I said, trying to look amiable. I’ve twisted my ankle and I can’t really walk .

Oh dear , said the older woman.

A third woman wandered up behind them.

Do you need an ambulance? the first woman asked.

I tried to get up, to put a little weight on my ankle, but it shot back lightning signals of agony.

I don’t know , I said, trying not to cry. I think it’s just twisted, I don’t think I need a hospital. But I can’t walk .

How can we help?

Yes, is there anything we can do? They huddled around me in a concerned triptych, like a bunch of mother hens.

I grimaced as a new searing pain shot up my leg, but tried to express my gratitude. Well, thank you… yes, sorry. You’re so kind. Can one of you just grab me a cab and hop in it with me? I don’t have any cash on me, but my house is literally right around the corner. I’ll need someone to just help get me inside so I can pay the cabdriver .

The three women all looked at one another, then at me, then at one another.

Um…

no ,

they said collectively.

But is there anything else we can do to help? one of them asked.

I was dumbstruck. And humiliated.

Are you sure you wouldn’t like us to call an ambulance? said one of the women.

Did they think I was trying to… scam them? Trick them? I was a thirty-five-year-old woman in jogging clothes with a twisted ankle on a quiet street in Scotland. We weren’t in a Dickens novel, for fuck’s sake.

One of them was at least kind enough to help me hobble over to a passing cab, and I threw myself at the mercy of the driver, who drove me the four blocks, took my arm, and half carried me up though our front door and into the kitchen, where I thanked him profusely and gave him a twenty-pound tip.

Ya’right, love? he asked, kindly. I knew I looked like hell. You’re sure?

Yes, I’m fine, really. Fine. I’m great. Thank you so, so very much .

He left, closing the door behind him.

Then I hopped over to the sink, ran some cold water over my leg, and started sobbing uncontrollably. In that moment, I couldn’t tell which hurt more, my ankle or my heart.

Brené Brown writes:

In a 2011 study funded by the National Institute on Drug Abuse, researchers found that, as far as the brain is concerned, physical pain and intense experiences of social rejection hurt in the same way… Neuroscience advances confirm what we’ve known all along: emotions can hurt and cause pain. And just as we often struggle to define physical pain, describing emotional pain is difficult. Shame is particularly hard because it hates having words wrapped around it. It hates being spoken.

I was walking around Edinburgh on crutches. I was an emotional mess. And to cap it all, my period was really late.

While Neil waited at a table, I peed on a stick in a restaurant bathroom and sat there absolutely stunned, and strangely relieved, by the result.

So that’s why I have become a crazy person. I’m a hormonal mess .

I’M PREGNANT .

All of a sudden my flailing worries about whether or not to take a business loan from my husband—or whether or not I was crazy to be grappling with the dilemma in the first place—seemed completely insignificant. What did it matter whether or not I was going to be a few grand short and borrowing money from this guy? I was carrying his child . Neil and I left the restaurant, walked home, and cuddled each other in bed for the next twelve hours, in shock.

It wasn’t until the next morning that the nurse’s question echoed back into my head. I googled the name of the antibiotic I had taken. Pregnant women were very strictly warned to avoid it. Birth defects.

I called our family doctor.

It’s not good, Amanda. Very risky. Especially in the first trimester. That antibiotic blocks the effects of folic acid, which is crucial to the fetus at the beginning of pregnancy .

What do you mean risky? I asked. How risky? HOW not good?

Really, really not good . He hesitated. As your doctor, I’m afraid I’d advise you to terminate the pregnancy .

Neil and I spent a hard few days in bed together, talking, accepting the decision, spooning each other. I cried a lot.