I learned when I was a little girl that it's bad enough when something falls on your leg, but what's worse is when someone lifts it off. Circulation is restored, and that's when the real pain begins.
Last night the hunky scientist and I ate wonderful vegetable curry from our favorite little local hole-in-the-wall and drank champagne and partially caught up on Battlestar Gallactica, my guilty geeky only semi-secret TV delight. I'd had a haircut in the afternoon, picked up two new sets of glasses that had come in (note: glasses that I actually am looking forward to wearing in public. A wonder.), come home and played with our little gray parrot. It's so good to be here doing normal homey things with the man I love. I slept deeply from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m., no ear open toward a monitor; no waking up multiple times to help anyone with anything. Despite two and a half cups of coffee, I am exhausted. I have a full day of meetings to attend and all I want to do is lie on the couch and doze with our cat. I miss my mom. I miss our old life. I miss being able to go home just to visit both my parents, and I'm still struggling a little against the idea that soon I will have no parent at all. It makes me think of a blue balloon let loose from its anchoring hand. I feel immobilized and shattered and I wonder if my pieces will all fit back together OK.
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