Oy Vey

I picked up my friend K's sister at the airport last night and was looking forward to some much-needed help with his care. She kept insisting that I didn't need to pick her up, but I wanted some uninterrupted time to talk with her. Also, I wanted to drive my new car.

Our conversation started out pleasantly enough. I filled her in on K's most recent medical developments. He's lived with AIDS for 20 years and recently had a heart attack. I told her about yesterday's visit to the cardiologist and about his progress in the week since he left the hospital.

But before we arrived at K's house, she turned the conversation to me. She and the rest of K's family don't get why I devote so much time to his care. Frankly, they're suspicious. She kept saying she didn't understand why I would want to do this.

I tried to explain to her that aside from caring deeply about K, making sure he has what he needs is a mitzvah. (My friend J says I'm an honorary jew so I'm allowed to talk this way) I didn't tell her that since my split with Dear Husband, it's actually provided a welcome distraction at times and allowed me to get outside of myself and my problems.

But I've done lots of volunteer work over the course of my life. I often joke that I'm doing karmic mitigation to offset my evil influence, but really I think it's an important part of having a meaningful life. I've volunteered at homeless shelters and dog rescues over the years and spent many hours tutoring adults and children in the hope that they will have a brighter future.

As we pulled up to K's gate, I told his sister that I hoped she understood. She said she did.

'You have no life!' she said brightly.

I almost dropped her suitcase.

This happened to me once before, at a homeless shelter where I volunteered every Saturday, all day, for a year. The director of the shelter was suspicious of me because I was a reporter and she didn't want me to have contact with any of the residents, so she charged me with the task of sorting out several warehouses stuffed with donated items.

One day, one of the paid county employees who spent the days leaning against walls and smoking told me that they all agreed that I spent every Saturday there because I had no life.

I'm ashamed to say that I never went back there. I finished out the day, my face burning the whole time, and could never bring myself to go back.

I guess what my father always said about me is true - I'm middle-class. It's one of his most potent insults - it means I care more about what people think about me than how I feel about myself.

I hope I don't react the same way to K's family's attitude. After all, his sister is a bored rich bitter housewife in Florida, and his parents are retired farmers in the flyover zone. I really shouldn't care what they think. Besides, K needs me.