Thanksgiving came and went, and I managed to pull together our annual turkey and trimmings. But by the time our relatives left, the adrenalin that had kept me going for days disappeared and I crashed. My doctor prescribed an antibiotic in addition to the earlier steroids and cough medicines, and I hoped this would solve my problem. But it didn’t.

Chanukah came and went, and despite the earlier symptoms plus excruciating pains in my chest and back, I managed to make latkes, the annual ritualistic hot-oil potato pancakes. Still, I only presented my family with a few presents and we failed to play the dreidel game; admittedly, I opted for sleep or a hot bath instead. My youngest, Melissa, commented: “Chanukah wasn’t as much fun this year.”

Today I returned from an appointment with an allergist and learned that my asthma is most likely temporary, my allergies minimal, my chest pain “muscular skeletal, not serious” and these potent little red antibiotics ought to take away the final germs living in my respiratory system in one or two days.

Hopeful that recovery is near, I felt ready to tackle every day life, beginning with the many errands that had piled up. I stopped at the bank, shopped at CVS, dropped off pants at the cleaners, and purchased a quart of milk and a special dinner for my family. I felt energetic and have learned that when the strength strikes, use it. So I also went to buy stamps.

It was then that my six-week debacle dissolved into the meaningless, minor irritant that it is. When I parked at the post office, a woman about my age in a van motioned to me: “Excuse me, I am disabled and need to get to the post office but can’t find the handicapped access ramp.” She added that she couldn’t easily maneuver her wheelchair out of the van.

She asked only that I mention this to the post office staff, however, instead, I went into the post office and returned with the necessary Express Mail slip she needed. I waited while she filled out the form. Then I collected her money and waited on line for her transaction, and for my stamps, while she sat, dependent on me, in her van. Within minutes, I’d returned her change and receipt.

“It must be difficult getting in and out of your car for quick errands like this,” I said to her.

“You’re not kidding,” she replied. “I was going to shop for Christmas presents for my son, but I’ve worked all day and I’m tired, so I’m going home.”

I thought of how low I’d been feeling--too weary to even get in and out of my car for errands until today. I thought about how disappointed I’d been to miss so many of my weekly tennis games. How few dinners I’d cooked for my family these past weeks. How little attention Steve and my daughters were getting from me these past weeks despite all of their loving doting on me. And I thought of my friend who is recovering from cancer and how she and her family are always so pleasant, so positive.

“I really appreciate your help,” she now said, and I came back to reality--in more ways than one.

“No problem,” I replied. Little did she know how intently I meant it.

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