If you’re assembling a care package for a friend who’s sitting watch at a hospital—a stressful place, no matter what, if for no better reasons than the lights, the smells, the noises, and the generally awful furniture—here are a few ideas about of what to put in it:

Do you know what you can do to really help someone whose needs are extraordinary? Don’t do it alone. This is the time to create a ‘village’ of friends to cooperate together and make a dent in those needs. We all have times in our lives when we need more than just a hug—we need food, serious companionship, help with tasks. We need to feel that we are not alone but surrounded by care.

I got married on October 3, 1992, in almost pitch darkness.

I had always wanted an evening wedding with candlelight. Aside from the romantic reasons, people generally look better in candlelight. Earlier that day, I’d had a huffy little tête-à-tête over it with my childhood church choir director, Judy. Judy was a reedy, elderly woman who had commanded the pipe organ for no less than four decades. We were sitting on the last row of pews, and she was holding the one tool in existence that could dim or brighten the huge Gothic chandeliers of the nave. She reached over to the control panel anchored on the seat-back in front of us and twisted a knob until the church resembled an indoor arena.

. . . Why do we resort to these tired phrases when friends are in desperate straits? Sometimes we don’t know what to say, and they do, seemingly, express acceptable hopes and beliefs. The idea of a new window opening or the possibility of reason behind apparent randomness offers the solace that we are part of a higher good, that our suffering will ultimately have a meaningful purpose.

A caregiver friend of mine tells the story of being ‘uninvited’ to a dinner party. Her husband had younger-onset Alzheimer’s, although few people were aware of his illness then. He enjoyed people and compensated for his problems by staying quiet for the most part. The hostess, though, learning of his diagnosis through a mutual friend, called to retract her invitation.

. . . As we spent this more intimate time together, though, she disclosed the reason for the tears. Her son was in a terrible situation with no conceivable way out, and she felt overwhelmed with worry.

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe I had simply assumed at first they weren’t ‘real’ tears. Why hadn’t I asked, Are you okay? I could have let it go if she didn’t want to say. But what had kept me from asking? Her pretense of not crying, despite how obvious it was?

. . . In 2002, one of my neighbors gave me a birthday card with a drawing of costumes in a wardrobe and the caption Masquerading as a normal person is exhausting. If I got that card today, I’d smile and toss it in the basket I keep for recyclable bits of ribbon, photos and small gift boxes. But at the time, the words struck a deep chord, and I framed it for my nightstand. I was two years into the grief of many losses. Smiling required a deliberate effort: when it was socially appropriate to smile, I smiled. Otherwise, I didn’t.

I miscarried my only pregnancy when I was 41 and finally pregnant, after five years of humiliating, sometimes painful, questionably dangerous and always expensive infertility treatments. For the IVF that resulted in this pregnancy, my husband and I had flown to a clinic 3000 miles from home, and his sperm were mechanically injected into my eggs to make five viable embryos, each dividing like perfect soap bubbles in a petri dish.