Everything is relative
Alison’s dad came from another state to see her, as did her sister, but Alison wasn’t up for anything. She had a cold, as did I and the kid. Plus, she was pretty rough most of the week.
Her dad left after only a few hours; her sister stayed, as did her mom, who’s been staying with us anyway.
I ended up throwing out my back as well, for the first time. When I was younger, I got older but I didn’t feel it. Not anymore.
If you’ve never been 43, sick, with a bad back and a spouse with brain cancer, you’re doing better than me. Lemme tell you, it’s an exquisite type of f___kery.
Plus, George Michael died, which impacted me enough that I wrote something about it for Friday.
There’s more, but you get the point: By any metric, this was a craptastic holiday.
Having said that, the truth is that it was still better – considerably – than Christmas last year.
Last year, she was in the hospital and we didn’t know if she’d make it a week. She also didn’t remember much. I had to tell her that she had cancer, over and over again. It was a fresh new hell each time.
This year, she was with me, her family, and the baby. And at night, she felt better enough to hang out with all of us for a few hours.
Everything is relative. All emotional pain lies in that gap between expectation and reality.
A year ago, I sat alone on a city bus the day after Christmas, wondering if I’d lose her before the ball fell for the new year. Now we have a bit of hope.
I’ll take this Christmas over that one any time. By our standards as of late, it was a great Christmas.
Carrie Fisher died. She and Lynda Carter were my very first crushes.
She was a hero for those with mental illness, and for that, I will always respect her. But that’s a post for another day.
Man, 2016 blows.