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.

For me.

It feels like something more should be happening.

I go to massage therapy twice a week to try to make things that aren’t working…work.

I do all the exercises that the therapists have shown me.

I make the sounds, I form the expressions, I push on every crevice on my face.

Progress remains slow and….always too slow.

I have dreams about the parts of my body taking giant leaps forward. I have to be satisfied with the work I can do, and the tiny, baby steps that I’m taking.

I actually dreamed about something more.  I dreamed about the muscles of my face letting loose and my mouth being normal.  Again. I dreamed that I woke up and I threw both legs over the side of the bed. Then I got up and walked to the bathroom like I used to.  Used to.  I dreamed of throwing a baseball.  There was a sand lot where I had taken my kids and we just tossed the ball around. Over and over.  Laughing.

Dreams.

I always dream.

I dream of the day that I can walk with assurance. When my arm and hand work with total confidence.  There will be a time that I’ll smile with no self-awareness issues.

Until then I’ll take my baby steps of progress.

Small as they may be.

They ARE progress.

I take what I can get.

We went through the doors like a herd of drunk emu.

To be honest I don’t know what a drunken emu really looks like. But, seriously, if it can cause panic on the faces of hairdressers in Great Clips across the country, you have to wonder if the emu might not know something we don’t.

Cause, Dude, panic.

We caused it.

It was great!

The looks on their faces as we filled their little lobby, was only better when our friends showed up and added three more to the mix.

They smiled so nice and cut bangs, bobs, and high and tight in hopes of getting us out of there.

Then the kids knocked over one of their signs.

And did you know that when a seven year old hits one bottle of shampoo the whole display goes down like dominoes?

Apparently they do.

I wonder if a $7.00 haircut pays for the broken chair the kids left behind.

I think they were glad to see us go.

Drunken emu.

That’s all I got to say.

People have said the nicest things they can think to say.  Things that will encourage me.  Things that make me feel a lot better about seeing people I’ve known in the past and those that I will get the chance to meet.

Whether sooner or later.

But it doesn’t stop me from having the fears and insecurities.  The ones that I can’t hide or pretend don’t exist.

I’m glad to be able to go to NY.  To share our story, and talk with the many that supported us when we needed it most.  I’m glad there’s success that we can enjoy with those that have worked so hard (missing those that won’t be there) and we’ll have friends that means so much that we don’t get to see often enough.

It’ll even be good/weird to have this opportunity to show Pete this blogger side of my life.  When he’s only ever really seen me being mommy and wife, he’ll get to see me being a WRITER.

So, while I’d like this to be a wonderful experience and know that I’ll be able to knock the socks off the folks I meet, I’m scared.

I’ve never been scared before.

I manage to be confident and assured, even when I don’t know what’s going on.

This time, I’m petrified.

From the airplane and cabs to new showers and meeting people with my crooked face, I’m not confident anymore.

No amount of words seem to make that ok.

I’ve got a list, I’ve got my cards, I’ve got a few plans, I’m eager to see friends.

I’m scared.

Another side effect of strokes I wasn’t expecting.