My husband mentioned in passing today that he’d really enjoyed my last non-sponsored post. He said, and I quote, “It hearkens back to when your posts really sang with your voice.”
My jaw dropped and for a second I wanted to be mad. How dare he denigrate my work, any of my work, even the stuff that is technically not 100% from my heart? But the rant died on my lips.
He’s right. Other than a post here and there, my stuff hasn’t shone in a while. In fact, if you look back at the blog archives from March on, there’s a lot more sponsored stuff than from the heart stuff.
But really, it’s not my fault. What does he want? That I should write about the stuff that is wedged in my chest, like a boulder that I can’t seem to dislodge?
How last week I sat in the hospital waiting room, waiting to hear if the surgery that we’d waited for for four years would give us our lives back? How during those five hours after the nurses has wheeled him into the OR a part of me cringed and waited for news that not only were we not going to get our lives back, but I might not get my husband back at all? How when the medical assistant assured me that they’d take care of him, my voice broke as I just asked her to please not break him any more than he already was?
How about writing about the anger that coursed through me the week before the surgery? Anger that we should have to deal with this on top of everything else when other fathers get boundless health they take for granted.
Maybe I should write about this god awful year where tribulation after tribulation landed on us, month after month, like Moses’ plagues, except without a way to make. them. stop. The broken tooth and ensuing infection. The sprained ankle. The strep in the finger and accompanying relentless 104F that stuck around for four long days. The fall off the monkey bars and subsequent trip to the ER. The terrifying medical diagnosis. The worsening of the other, pre-existing, condition. The dead car. The crumbling foundation of the house. The damn Supreme Court ruling that dried up our income.
Or how about I write about the fact that every night these last two weeks I’ve sat at the computer and tried to create a family holiday card and… I just can’t. (Well, I did create a card, but M says I can’t send it. It’s not appropriate or something and might worry some recipients.) But really, what is there to say? So long 2011, don’t let the door hit you on the ass as you leave! Not exactly in the spirit of the holidays.
This year would have brought a weaker woman to her knees, or at least running to the vodka and pills. Not me, I’m freakishly strong apparently. I’ve found my super power, I can take an emotional beating and just keep on chugging.
What does come to a halt is my creativity. It all gets stuck, maybe because if I start to tap into the place that allows me to spin heartfelt, emotional posts I won’t be able to stop everything from spilling out, and if that happens I won’t be able to keep on chugging any longer.
My husband’s surgery went really well and according to the surgeon was long overdue. They wheeled him back to me, and he opened his eyes and cracked a joke. I almost wept in relief.
He’s home, with me, recovering until the end of the year. The two of us are hanging out, reading, talking, napping, and laughing. We’re healing. Him from his surgery, me from this year. I want nothing more than to just sit here, licking my emotional wounds, and if he weren’t here I’d probably be doing just that (or my equivalent which involves endless hours of Las Vegas reruns and too much tea). Instead I’m lapping up this unexpected bounty of one-on-one time with my husband and remembering to be grateful for what this year didn’t take from me.
I have my family, my sense of humor and my voice, which is lying peacefully inside, just waiting for me to be ready to let it out again.