You know how busy weeks usually start. Weeks before this alleged busy week you simply scratch in a single activity on a calendar. Little did you know, that while you are living the days up until that single activity, the activity has been quietly and militaristically recruiting under the sly. Now suddenly at the beginning of the week you look at your calendar, remembering scratching in that single activity only to see twelve others also scratched in (No way is that your handwriting!) and voila! The busy week hath birthed.
Well such a busy week appeared on my calendar early last week. It started out innocently enough with friends over for lunch on Tuesday before blossoming into a full fledged 9-year-old birthday party, soccer/hip-hop/football practice and Easter weekend. Now lest you scoff at this week and say you've seen worse let me add one more:
Wednesday night (the day before the birthday party) this poor mother found herself in such pain that she couldn't even begin to imagine laying down and sleeping that night, much less throwing a birthday party for nine squealing 9-y/olds. A late night visit to the ER and a friendly visit from Mr. Morphine and suddenly, that heavily laden table that was my week suddenly became someone else's heavily laden table.
I will admit right here and right now to a bright sappy look that must have crossed my face as the sleepy ER Doc told me that I needed emergency surgery to remove my gallbladder. There may or may not have been tears of gratitude and an attempted sloppy kiss (remember the morphine) that had mostly to do with the fact that I wasn't dying anymore--although there might have been a secondary moment where I saw my busy week suddenly (and with no need for guilt on my part) become someone else's. I got to spend the next two days in relative peace and quiet at the hospital playing "You know you're a writer when... 1. You analyze every pain and put it into a descriptive sentence. 2. The drug-induced dream becomes your new favorite idea for a book 3. That thing the nurse just said about your dressing is not only poetic but inspirational and must be written down(remember the morphine)."
So today is Easter Sunday. I've been out of the hospital since Friday (although in a narcotic haze that tends to amplify not only the dog barking two miles away, but the child crying right in my ear) and all I can think to say is how grateful I am.
First: The birthday party was a success in that, even though I wasn't able to make the Barbie Cake my 9 y/o wanted, or draw the picture for pin-the-crown-on-the-princess, she and her squealing little friends had a wonderful time (thanks to a resourceful husband and a copy of Tangled) proven by the huge smile I got from her when I saw her later that night in the hospital.
Second: The doctors were able to not only quickly diagnose my problem but also get me into surgery quickly, thus successfully curing the mystery illness I've had for the last couple of years.
Third: I have the most wonderful family, friends and neighbors. From the phone calls, text messages and dinners brought over for my family, I feel so cherished and taken care of. Even today, Easter Sunday, we were surprised by the most amazing Easter ham with all the accessories and even a get well card.
And last: My husband, Brett, who did the work of both a dad and a mom-with-a-super-busy-week. It's hard for me to take time just for myself and he managed to make me feel completely comfortable and secure that my children are being well taken care of so that I have been able to sleep and heal.