Occasionally I will remember a thing, or realise a thing, that leaves me feeling kinda sad.
I’ve already given away tickets to the opera, the symphony, the ballet. I’ve already accepted that we won’t be able to go the the panto this year.
But as holiday season approaches, all kinds of things are hitting me.
I decided weeks ago not to try to host my annual eggnog party this year, but just realised we probably won’t have a tree either. Getting the tree and getting it in the house is one thing; hauling the ornaments out of the closet, decorating, and then putting it all away again after is another.
And I just realised that candlelight Christmas Eve service—which I love, love, love—may well be torture. It will be our congregation’s first in our new home. I was so looking forward to it. But all that flickering... maybe we can check it out and leave early if need be? I could make my kid hold my candle, and keep a sleep mask handy in case slipping it on briefly helps? We’ll see…
I keep hoping I’ll just magically feel better—I do feel a lot better than before!—but it also hit me today that Saturday will be the six week mark. My concussion pal told me that people usually feel better in three to six weeks, or three months, or it becomes chronic. I wanted to be a six-week person. Can’t help thinking I’d be farther along if my shoulder weren’t broken as well.
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