Real Shower AND....
Red letter day for Lisa!
I got to take a real shower for the first time since my foot surgery on October 14!
AND….I got a gently used iPhone 10, upgraded from my 8, that has portrait mode and doesn’t turn black when you flip it to take a selfie!
AND…my new Sidekick Morning Journal and my Clever Fox planner arrived this afternoon!
AND…my optometrist told me that my distance vision is starting to do what distance vision does when you become more mature. Not the milestone I wanted to reach today, but, oh well, thank the Lord for contacts and glasses.
AND…according to feedback from trusted friends and the lady at the optometrist’s office, I had a really good hair day!
AND…my house is clean—thank you, Becky!
AND…I made it through today.
I know that in these next months, I will not literally crumble into a million pieces. I will not disappear into a black hole, never to return. I will not cease to exist just because I am in pain. When I say, “I made it through today,” I mean that I am sitting here thinking rational thoughts, enjoying the sunset, and knowing I have a future and a purpose.
About a week ago, I realized I was scheduled to get my dental implant this morning at 8 am. I had to have my left bottom molar pulled on January 31, 2018. I imagined what it would be like sitting in that same aqua-colored dentist’s chair reliving everything, remembering that I had my tooth pulled just one day before I would not have Chandler with me any more. I decided to reschedule on a date that, as far as I can tell, has no hidden Chandler connections.
This morning as Chip was getting ready to transfer everything from my old phone to my new, I said, “I can’t lose my birthday voice message from Chandler.” I’ve never said anything with more conviction. I simply cannot lose Chandler’s voice singing happy birthday to me on July 12, 2018. We figured out how to send it directly to Chip’s phone, but we had to listen to make sure. My sweet boy singing to me. I just want to hear him say his infamous opener to countless dialogues, “Mom, uh….”
This afternoon in the optometrist’s office, as I put my chin on the machine that measures peripheral vision, I smelled Room 6, ICU, Mission Hospital. I reasoned….this is just plastic on vision testing equipment. Here and now. Here and now. The good news — I passed the peripheral vision test with flying colors. Don’t try sneaking up on me. I appreciated that Dr. Kostura began my exam by telling me how sorry he is for our loss. Dove Canyon Optometry sent us something — flowers or a plant — after Chandler died. It feels good to have your community behind you.
I have to take this a day at a time. I never know what a day will hold. I cannot allow myself to ruminate over what might happen tomorrow. In these next months, I don’t know what specific thoughts and fears my mind will wrestle with. I don’t know if or when my heart will race. I don’t know when tears will defy containment or measurement. I don’t know what image or smell or sound or memory will trigger a riptide that threatens to pull me under.
Aching to my core, white knuckles gripping the raft, missing my son with every fiber of my being…. I will not drown. I will not just survive. I will thrive.
