Sans Fig Leaf
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"Grateful"
22 January, 2004
I was extremely happy to see many of my friends this last weekend. Happy and thankful to a greater degree than usual. About a month ago we had a bunch of friends over for a relaxing evening of board games. I didn't get to see most of them because I was laying in a hospital bed with tubes and monitors hooked up to me. A little health problem that I had misdiagnosed as coming down with the flu had actually involved internal bleeding for several days, resulting in me being dangrously low on something most of us take for granted--enough blood to keep everything working.
I've had enough problems with allergies and bronchial infections over the years--and I have enough friends with severe asthma or other lung disorders--that I don't take breathing for granted anymore. But I have to admit that my red-blood cell count had never, previously, been on my "things to fret about" radar.
Even more sobering, for me, was the fact that, just a few days after celebrating a rather jolly Christmas with my mom's side of the family, I was laying in an intensive care unit, just two doors over from the place where Ray had died six years previously. I tried not to think about it. Michael and several of our friends (taking turns: Mike, Julie, David, and Julie again) sat with me and tried to keep my mind off things that I had no control over.
The scariest moment, for me, was when they started to take me to the surgery to check what was going on inside. I had a sudden, irrational fear that I'd never see Michael again. I've intensely disliked my previous encounters with anesthesia, and like most people, the idea of losing consciousness (as opposed to letting myself go to sleep) frankly terrifies me.
As if he sensed what was going through my mind, at that moment Michael gave me a big smile and said, "I'll be here when you wake up." There was a more than a bit of worry visible in his eyes, but his tone of voice was firm. I had no doubt he'd be there. I said I'd see him then. It may be silly, but that little promise that I would wake up gave me the anchor I needed. It gave me a focus for my determination so I could let go of the fear.
I know it's cliched to say it, but experiences like that make you thankful for the good things in your life while making the bad things seem minor by comparison. It's not as if I'm not regularly grateful for the good things in my life.
I have a home. I have a job. I live in a nation that, despite all it's faults, is still the home of millions of people who love, and live, and work every day.
I have a wonderful group of amazing friends. They're talented, smart, and caring. I don't know why they're often willing to indulge my crazy ideas for publishing and gaming projects. Nor do I quite comprehend how they put up with my obsessions ranging from pre-twentieth century fantastic literature to quantum physics to dictionaries to my favorite television shows. But they do, and I'm every so grateful for them.
I have the most wonderful husband in the world. He cooks. He cleans. He's funny. He laughs at my jokes. He fixes my computer and lets me pretend I don't know how these high tech things work. He puts up with my collections of books and candles and plushies and music and toys and projects and ideas.
All of those things are worth being thankful for--not because I naively assume that they will always be there, but because I know that some day they may not. That's the part that some people never get. What makes the good things in live precious is their very impermanance.
The world is full of uncertainty, and no one knows what the future may bring. But no matter what happens, I know I will always have the love, and the memory, of my friends.
And that's more than enough for a lifetime.