Two Thousand Seventeen Is Gone; Long Live Two Thousand Eighteen

It’s Twenty Eighteen, and I want to thank you all for the gift of your time and attention these past months. Those are the only things you can never recoup, and to give so freely of them to this blog is a staggering gift. I will do my very best to continue to earn it.

As her improvement grows, Jacquelynn is coming more and more into herself. As her self-awareness grows, she becomes, well, more her. The woman I fell in love with was a focused, determined professional woman with no patience with weakness, most especially her own. While this can render her almost furious with herself (and occasionally me) when she struggles with expressing herself, this falls mostly and in a very large way firmly in the “benefit” category.

Where before she loved her walks, she has resisted riding the recumbent stationary bike I purchased for her last September (at her request).   This resistance was at least partially because she was uncomfortable climbing on and off of it. Her improving coordination plays some part in the new willingness and eagerness to get on board. She is renewing her complete dedication to full recovery and getting sufficient exercise plays a key role in that recovery.

She’s also enjoying a renewed interest in quizzing with the flash cards we purchased for her a few weeks back. She asked me to quiz her today, after waffling and putting it off recently. The results were, frankly, shocking. When last we went through the deck of 52 images, two for each letter of the alphabet, several weeks ago she had a lot of difficulty coming up with the correct word, scoring on just short of half the deck (22 cards). Today, it was only necessary to set aside and come back to 8 cards, and she was successful on the second attempt on all but three of those. That is, by any measure, an incredible improvement, especially considering that she hasn’t played with or leafed through the decks even once in the interim.

As I was attempting to write the rest of this post, I realized that all I was doing was re-writing something I’d already posted on my personal Facebook page.   So, with respect, I’m simply going to share here what I’ve already posted publicly, mildly edited.

2017 is over, and given what we’ve been through, many may expect me to celebrate its end as having been a horrible year, and glad to have it behind us.

Not so fast.

Yes, Twenty-Seventeen brought us a horrifying near-death experience (on Valentine’s Day, of all days), followed the next month by a sobering and terrifying diagnosis. We also said a tearful farewell to my mom after her illness. All ingredients for a truly shitty year, right? I don’t think anyone would argue with me if I raged at the departed year while begging for a better new one.

I’m unemployed. My wife has a terminal disease with no recognized treatment options. I’ll never see my mom again.

But look at it as I choose to:

Jacquelynn defied a 75% mortality rate for her “Severe Sepsis w/Acute Kidney Injury”.

We were in a position to allow me to take an extended break to be at home where my wife needs me.

Despite her regular doctor telling her there was no treatment for her illness, Jacquelynn is making a recovery that can only be classified as miraculous. Especially given that, without treatment, it’s likely she would already be essentially lost to me. Now, I can confidently project that 2018 will see her completely returned to herself, to me, and to the world.

Mom, much though I miss her and still weep at the thought of our loss, is truly home and free from her suffering.

So, while I’m not going to miss 2017, neither will I lament what it brought us. You’ve probably heard me say (and I believe this 1000%) that life happens FOR us, rather than TO us, and I look at last year in that same light. Nothing happened that wasn’t necessary to get us where we need to go, and we are, without a shred of doubt, on the right path.

 

I bid you WELCOME, 2018. I greet you with tremendous expectations and open my arms to whatever blessings you may bestow.

 

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