Good morning, Kossacks:
I'm up, I'm dressed in something other than PJs for the first time in days and I'm alert enough to sit down and, finally, thank you all for your extraordinary kindness of thought and deed in the wake of nyceve's diary.
I'm simply overwhelmed by how kind and generous you all are. Next week, I'll actually meet two Dallas-area Kossacks whose comments I've seen around here and who, now, I'll be able to pair with faces.
I've also received extraordinary offers of cash. For this, I thank you. I am, without doubt, on a tight rope financially, given my recent payout in advance of surgery. I'm not, however, in such dire straits that I'm willing to take your money. I so appreciate the offers, but I urge you to use your money, instead, for your own families, or to support the local Democratic candidate of your choice.
So...I'm bruised, tired and broke, but alive, alive, alive. To celebrate, and by way of thanks, I offer up, below, this diary of things I'm appreciating anew these days.
I realized, laying in Parkland Hospital after the wreck, that this was one of those times. You know? One of these times that you can choose to hit the pain pump like a gerbil with a reward pellet, wallow in your misery and bury your head in the sand like an ostrich. (When you've been through something that painful and dramatic, people tend to give you a long rope with which to hang yourself.)
With a terrified six-year-old, a business and a busy life, though, you choose to take the painful high road. I started by doing everything the doctors and physical therapy team asked me to do, no matter how much it hurt. I stopped taking the pain pills the night my daughter was finally able to sleep in bed with me the first time (there's not much I can do about being hurt, but there's no way I'm going to allow myself to be groggy, too, when she's around).
I made myself sit down in front of the computer for hours every day this past week, contacting clients, putting the things I could on hold and, generally, trying to keep my small business from hitting the skids. And I made my first forays into the real world with the help of my sister, using the motorized scooters at Target to buy a rolling cart, backpack and a few other things that will make life around the house easier to handle while I'm in the wheelchair and on crutches.
I'll admit that I started out the week still feeling a bit sorry for myself. By today, though, that's gone, and I cannot help but feeling extremely blessed. I have so many, many things to be thankful for, I wanted to share them here, and invite you to share a few of your own blessings.
For starters, my immediate friends and family have treated me like gold. They've brought food, collected medicine and, sometimes, simply showed up unexpectedly to visit -- usually just the moment my spirits needed lifting. They all fought over keeping my six-year-old, who has been able to pick and choose from sleepover oppportunities and may be close to starting her own second-grade version of hotels.com soon ("Well, Mommy, they have a pool, but they have good toys and their Mommy makes good chicken.")
Before my surgery, my father and my brother-in-law called each other without bidding, turned up unexpectedly and built a temporary handrail to help me get up and down my steps. This weekend, they did the same thing, bringing the lumber and supplies to build me a ramp. In 104-degree heat here in Dallas. Took me an hour to stop crying -- and, when they were done, they simply hugged me and drove home -- a home that's 3 hours away for my brother-in law.
I had my 43rd birthday in Parkland this year, which could have been a total downer. I'll admit, I was heavily drugged and drifting in and out of a fog since it was the morning after my surgery, but I actually had a terrific day. Friend after friend showed up, many bearing bunches of birthday balloons, to the absolutely delight of my kiddo. Many bearing cakes. People magazine materialized (I'm telling you folks, when you're on a pain pump, that's about all the reading material you'll ever want or need).
My baby girl, Sadie, marched in triumphantly, carrying a woven basket she had decorated with ribbons and stickers and filled with decorated plastic bottles of stuff she'd made using our neighbor's bathroom. ("Mommy, this stuff is bathwash. I mixed 10 kinds of bath soap to make it. Mommy, this stuff is lotion. I mixed three kinds of lotion to make it). Best present I EVER had, unless you're counting the three hours she snuggled next to me in the hospital bed, stroking my hands and trying to feed me cold McDonald's french fries.
I now have a freezer full of meals, and so many offers of more meals and runs to the grocery store that food will never be a worry -- for which I'm glad, given the six-year-old again.
I have more flowers than a funeral parlor, and more arrive every day. Still. I've had flowers from friends in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, New York City and Russia, not to mention just about everybody I've ever known here in Dallas. I'm sending everyone individual thank-you notes, but I thank you all here, too.
I've had good coffee every day, courtesy of my friends at the Nodding Dog Coffee Shop. The owner showed up and brought me my beloved ice coffee my first day in the hospital, leaving his shop immediately during his breakfast rush after hearing about my wreck. Since then, they've supplied me with ongoing cups and beans.
Nyceve wrote her diary about my wreck and my experience at Parkland, and you guys came out of the woodwork with support. I tried like hell to acknowledge all of your individual comments, but know I missed many. At any rate, I thank you, I thank you, I thank you. Your comments and well-wishes were one of the things that helped me pull myself out of my hole, and I hope to meet more of you guys at the next Yearly Kos.
Beyond that, here's a mish-mash of the things that keep you going in times like this, in no particular order:
Stickers applied to my bruised cheeks by a six-year-old. Hot coffee. Cold coffee. Project Runway marathons. Making it to the toilet in time. Daily Kos print-outs. Hot showers. Fading bruises. Chocolate. Sponge Bob marathons with a small person. Sitting on the porch. Air-conditioning. Calls from friends. Aromatherapy. Hot dish. Iced tea. Cherry pie. Sadie's "massages." The mobility carts at Target. 80-degree mornings. 90-degree nights. Boots lemon basil lotion. The die-hard liberal nurse in the recovery room who helped me Bush-bash my way back to consciousness post-surgery (a real find here in Texas). A good attorney (yes, folks, I now have one). Car-shopping (yes, folks, I now need one). Clean laundry. Mopped floors. Family. Friends. Children. Pets. Life.
Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.