There has been a weird sense of what the normal world would call popularity.
And I really don’t get it.
Something happened when I was in the hospital. When people thought I might die, they really chose to do the absolute best and most they could for my family.
Food. Support. Understanding. Toys. Comfort. Distractions.
People chose that time when I wasn’t even really aware to try to learn who I was. They read, they followed, they waited.
And some of those people were a little disappointed when I lived despite all doctor’s words.
Most were able to be full of joy and relief that I would start the recovery process.
Now, months after I came home and continued the recovery every day, there are those that will walk this path with me.
They choose to encourage me when I feel my spirits failing.
They pick me up each time that I fall….figuratively and literally.
They laugh when I do and they feel my frustration eating at me.
Some have said that I’m the “trauma of the month” or the “right flavor of handicap”. It might be for some. They might want to look and watch like bad car wreck, rubbernecking to see what happened. I won’t lie. I’m guilty. I’ve stared and strained to see.
But THAT isn’t popularity.
It’s fleeting and it will fade with time.
At the end of the day I know that it means a ton to have your support. But I’d do it anyway.
For my kids. For my husband.