Last week, at a conference, a woman walking ahead of me as we left a session tripped and fell. (Why women where those high heels when they're on their feet all day is another story, but that's for another discussion of restless leg syndrome.) Being a gentleman, I helped her up and got her seated in a nearby chair. Turned out she broke her wrist, as I found out the following day. Others also stopped and offered aid. Nice gestures, to be sure.

There are so many incidences and times when aid is required, and not just in catastrophe situations — just in everyday life. The elderly woman struggling with groceries outside the supermarket is a good example. Old farts like me who are having trouble getting their heavy laptop out of the overhead bin on an airplane once we land is another prime example, and I'm not embarrassed to admit it — especially since I sprained my wrist helping that woman up off the floor at the conference.

But there are so many other, simpler gestures that can ensure your induction into the “Aid Hall of Fame.” When did a four-letter word like help become a dirty word? I've heard all the excuses. I'm not qualified. I'm afraid of being sued. Those kinds of things. Walking through O'Hare one late night on a return to home from California, I came across a man lying on the floor of the terminal, bleeding from the ears. I'm no doctor, but it was obvious he was having a medical emergency. People were just walking by as he lay there. I stopped and gave the support I could while waiting for a doctor to show up as the PA system desperately called for help. Finally, a doctor arrived but it was too late. The poor man was gone. At least there was someone there in his final moments to give him a little comfort. He didn't die alone, although I don't know if he even realized it.