My husband was in an accident on April 29th and it turned our world upside down and spit it out sideways.
Apparently, cutting down trees for neighbors can lead to a broken back and as of the time of this post, fifteen days in the hospital. That's what happens when you are catapulted thirty feet in the air by a tree who doesn't' appreciate being cut with a chainsaw.
I'm so grateful for the staff at this hospital for getting my husband better and teaching him to walk with a broken back and a pinched sciatica.
That being said, I hate hospitals.
I hate the uncomfortable beds that you are supposed to get rested and healed on. I hate the showers that never really get hot. I hate the food that is supposed to nourish you back to health, but really ask your spouse to run to various food places all day. I hate the thermostat that either makes the place icy or hellish.
I do love the hospital ice. It's kind of like Sonic.
I'm writing this from a couch that squeaks because it's covered with the stuff that you throw over furniture when you want to paint. It folds into a couch that is an inch too short for the lollipop guild to sleep on.
The thing is--this place is where I got stronger. I learned that physically, I am strong enough to hold my husband up while he learns to use a walker. Mentally, I am strong enough to gut up when there isn't time for crying or giving up. Emotionally, I can control my tears even when I don't have to. And more than that--I can write here, while nothing is convenient and none of the conditions are perfect.
I've always been one of those 'get ready' people. In order to write, I thought I had to have the right music, the right desk, and the right coffee. Crackers and various snacks, along with my favorite lip balm and pens and journals had to be lined up on my desk.
Maybe I've learned that all that isn't necessary. I'm writing on this mouse of a couch with no headphone and a honey bun that has spent its life petrifying in a vending machine for God only knows how long.
I have a miniscule styrofoam cup of coffee next to me with powdered creamer and the pink stuff sprinkled in it.
But I'm writing.
And it's lovely.
I've put the links for His Haunted Heart at the bottom of this newsletter. It's my first historical, even though, in my mind it's a southern gothic semi-paranormal romance.
I'm calling it historical.
Next newsletter, I'm going to be talking about controlling your bubble and what that means, especially now, to me.
Still here. Still writing with nasty coffee. Still enamored with hospital ice.
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