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’s hard when you’re offered something you’d like to take advantage of, but you have to figure out the right way to tell them that you’re in a wheelchair.  Do you tell them casually, pretend that everyone knows, and it’s no big thing. Or do you say it sort of pointedly so there is no mistaking the issue?

All of that so they can write back saying that they knew all along.  They were aware of the problems and want to make it as easy on you as possible.

Then you get to suck.

Because a part of you is glad that they take all your needs into consideration.  You’re thankful for the kindness that it takes to be that knowledgeable.

But at the same time you feel icky.  Because you know that people probably had a conversation abut how to make things work for you.  Somewhere there’s a piece of paper (or a stack) about you and how you don’t do things. At one point a person had to decide to make the offer to you.

They felt it was more likely that you would agree than not-agree.

Then I will swallow all those GAK! feelings and take their offer with the gratitude deserved.

And I will say thank you.

And mean it.

Electrolysis.  Water Therapy.  Acupuncture. Deep Tissue Massage. Healing Stones. Braces. Exercises.

We’ve tried it all, plus some, or have plans to try it soon.

I am willing to try and work so hard.  I want it and I wonder where I’ll draw the line. There IS a line.

There’s a point of no return, where I’ve gone too far.

Will I know it if I get that far?  Will I be willing to stop?

God, I want to walk.

I won’t lie.

There’s not much I would let get in my way of that goal.

What if I needed to make something else a priority?  SomeONE else.  Would I do it?

Sometimes I wonder.

The way a new parent of a second child will ask themselves WHAT IF. What if they could only get one child out in time?  What if you were forced to make Sophie’s Choice?

And that’s the way my mind works.

Voodoo.  Scientology.  Peanut Milkshakes. Witchcraft.  Whale Sperm.

What if the secret cure were somewhere in these?  At what point do they quit sounding crazy?

(except for the whale sperm, that may ALWAYS be crazy)

Where do you spend your time?

If you’re like me, you’re used to having most of your time spent in front of a desk.

Granted, a lot of the time is computer-bound, but I was used to all the other time spent with paperwork and other work.

In recent days we’ve moved our girls’ upstairs to a bedroom together, and moved an office downstairs.

Dude.

I haven’t seen my desk in eight months.  I used to do my most important things there.

I have it back!!

My desk.  An office.  The many files and folders.

It’s as though another notch slipped home.

No, it’s not in the same place. And it’s not set up the same.

But my husband told me that he would move my office downstairs months ago.  I told him there wasn’t a need yet. There wasn’t then.

But having it now makes me feel more whole.  Now it can make me more organized.

Having an office, a place, is having a little of myself again.