Watering Plants I Might Kill

A cool fern (I think?) we saw in Pittsburgh.

Things can change on a dime. And, hey, if anyone knows the etymology behind that phrase, let me know. For now, I’ll just use it. Point: things change. In a New York minute. (Ooh, there’s another one; I could do this all day).

One minute you’re on a long-awaited journey in a vintage camper somewhere in the southwest, oohing and ahhing a sunset in Las Cruces. And the next you’re in a hospital bed recovering from a freak infection you got while taking an innocent walk in Texas. I’ll spare you the details of all that, and the point of this essay, blog, whatever isn’t to rehash the past three and a half months of procedures and surgeries, a longer-than-desired hospital stay, the doctor who dared to utter “possible amputation”, IV antibiotic therapy, VNA visits, or ongoing recovery.

Long story short: after a seven month sojourn through much of the U.S., we wound up right back where we started. New Hampshire is as good a place as any, and during our trip all I wanted was to be home. I longed for it and even missed all the snow. Turns out, I'm a seasons gal. So, here we are. 

Did I regret the trip? Did I feel dumb for selling our cute little dollhouse? Did I wish we’d just stayed put? I did. Some days I still do. But to regret it doesn’t change anything, and to scold myself for choices I made as my former self, for choices that were made in earnest at that time, is a waste of time and energy. Lessons were learned, experiences were had. Had we not done it, we would've wondered for years. I don't think I'd be as grateful for the 603 if we hadn't left and seen more of what was out there. Hint: not much because wherever you feel the most connected to yourself is where you belong, whether it makes sense or not. And for a long time, I resisted New Hampshire, but this is it. Home. I'm home and it's okay.

Wherever you're the best you you can be, along with who shows up for you when the horribly unexpected has happened—and you’re wondering if you’ll be alive tomorrow—is what truly matters.

Thoughts like, “Where will we live now? What kind of couch will we want? What are we going to do with David (the Sunrader)? What book should I read next? Do I even want to know what’s going on in the news?” take a backseat when you’re only sleeping in the cracks between nurse checks, beeping machines, and your roommate moaning all night. When my husband visited me at the hospital and talked about housewares, a couch, or other inconsequential matters my reply was, "I don't care." And when he moved us into an apartment I didn't see much of before choosing it, my feeling was, "I don't care." These are, galactically speaking, not important whatsoever.

Life changed, my worldview shifted, and a very different picture took shape as bigger questions surfaced.

“Am I a good person? What makes one a good person? Is there a God? Does he give a crap about us floundering down here? Did I do something to deserve this, or was it simply ‘wrong place wrong time’? Do my prayers reach anyone? Did he/it do this on purpose for some reason? What’s even real anymore? Is everything merely an illusion? Am I different from the person I wrote about and published five years ago? If a person changes, does a fixed version of them remain in the minds of others? Does comfort lull us into a false sense of security? Will anyone who knows I'm in the hospital (it was kept private purposefully, don't feel bad if you knew nothing) visit me today? How are all my hospital roommates now that I don’t see them everyday? 

Life just…feels different now. Priorities have shifted. All the things I think I was running from don't seem so bad now: working, paying bills, driving, figuring out what's for dinner, watering plants you know you might accidentally kill, vacuuming, doing dishes, making the bed, scrubbing the toilet, dusting, cooking for yourself, brushing your teeth, showering (unsupervised, without hoses and tubes attached!), watching reruns (Young Sheldon, 90210), doing laundry, walking the dogs and watching them poop, sleeping soundly, peeing, pooping, walking unassisted, brushing your hair, perusing stacks at the local library, reading more than a sentence at a time, writing anything, being bored...these may seem trivial, but they are gifts! Because the alternative is not having them, and not having a choice.

Though I'm still struggling to make sense of things right now, one thing that does make sense (the most sense) about my life is my husband. Everything else…is…just the weather.