Guess what? I’m an aunt! It’s one of the best feelings on the planet. I held my nephew for the first time last weekend. I flew out to Salt Lake to visit his very capable and amazingly seasoned parents. I watched little Atticus when they went out to dinner Saturday night. I stared at him for three hours. I had to pee for two of them. And low and behold, I am in love. Life is so simple for Atticus. He cries, adults rush to hold him and feed him.

I cried at work recently, and it was clear that I was making the people around me uncomfortable. How come no one rushed to stick a boob in my mouth? It’s like when a person you’re not crazy about fails to invite you to a party. You’re relieved you don’t need to attend, but it would have been nice to have been asked. I’m just sayin.

Speaking of soothing anxiety with food, I’ve been cycling through gum like its crack. I’ve also been jumping at any opportunity to start a new hobby. “I know! Bus Spotting! I can make business cards that say ‘Bus Enthusiast with a Flair for Bendy-Bus Pivot-Joints.’ I’ll incorporate this into my art… somehow…” Who am I kidding? I can’t even tell cars apart. I passed a Ferrari recently while driving with my boyfriend. “Name that car,” he said. “Ummmm… Subaru Impreza?” I responded hopefully. You can imagine his frustration.

Frantically searching for new hobbies mean’s something’s brewing, and I don’t mean the soy backlash from my mid-day latte. It’s usually an indication that I don’t want to feel something emotionally. Rather than start a new hobby, I need to focus on what I’m good at: painting. As an artist I go to great lengths to convince myself that I am capable of doing just about anything else. Why is this? Why isn’t just -being an artist- OK? I know I’m a good, “Grandpa Told Me So.” And if you ever catch me listening to Kenny Chesney, we have a date with a 2×4 out back. You get the first swing, make it count.

While a lot has transpired over the last year: learning to walk again, lots of traveling and the birth of the cutest nephew ever, other things remain unchanged. For now I will curtail my tempting yet doubtful Bus Spotting obsession (I live in Connecticut for God’s sake, we don’t do mass transit) and focus on creating art in an already hectic life. I have a few ideas brewing. And none of them involve soy or finishing my undergrad.

In the last three weeks, I started walking with the assistance of crutches, have been to a hundred and one physical therapy sessions and faced a demon or two.

The other day, my girlfriend and I had plans to get together. Stuff came up, she cancelled.

Determined to go on with my day, I hopped (literally) into the shower. Something’s up. I feel like I got kicked in the stomach. ”What the hell is wrong with me… ??”  Whatever this is, it’s an overreaction. “If it feels hysterical, its historical,” I thought. Her cancelling shouldn’t bother me this much.

Then it just hit me… I started crying in a way that made me thankful that NO ONE was within earshot. Even my cats who typically show up when I’m upset, mysteriously disappeared.

“God, where the hell are you? Why aren’t you here!!! I can’t leave, no one is around, Im alone and I am soooo over being housebound!!! WTF!!!” I guess I could have texted, but yelling seemed more old school.

Woah there missy. Giant gaping black hole showing. You know the one that can’t possibly be filled by family member, friendship, relationship despite what American Media asseverates?

After 15 minutes of uncontrollable crying, I just got kind of quiet and calm. I stared at the wall for a half hour. “I should paint,” I thought. Then this insanely deep sense of being abandoned washed over me. “Oh crap. This I do not want feel.” So there it was. It’s moving in for good. “You are alone….” Instead of doing something dumb like turning to Zappos or an ex boyfriend, I just paid attention and felt it.

Then, ironically, I got bored and… it left.

Slowly, my internal wiseass crept back and I busted out a verse of All By Myself by Eric Carmen. Thank GOD I live alone.

I hopped my bad self out of the bathroom and over to my laptop. Then I proceeded to download 6.001 Structure and Interpretation of Computer Programs from MIT Open Courseware. There’s a good chance I’ll get stuck on Lecture 11: Abstract Data Types, Invariants, and Why Am I Putting Myself Through This when there is no real professor to turn to. ADD to the rescue. And look, a cat. Luckily, when I get old, I’ll still have the cats and the ADD will invariably transition to senility.

I was talking to a girlfriend today about fundamental changes that happen when big life events go down. She went through a similar experience when she was out of commission due to a year long illness. Also forced to slow down and take a good hard look at her life, she faced a few demons. “In that time, I learned to be quiet and to listen,” she recounted. “It was difficult, but I’m a completely different person now. I know exactly what I want… and what I don’t.”

There’s been a shift. I sat through something huge the other day. I gave abandonment an ear. How did I go from feeling it to Eric Carmen to Computer Science? I don’t know. Its not what I expected. Neither is the fact that Carmen’s first two hit singles were inspired by Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2.  I, like you, now feel slightly dumber.

Some people consider getting angry with God a sin. The way I look at it, I did enough penance as an innocent seven year old to secure a couple free passes. Not for nothing, but the mental impression of Eric Carmen’s Farrrah-Fawcett-feather-dew is worth at least fifteen Hail Mary’s. As for facing inner demons, they’ll be back. The internal wiseass is currently brushing up on the lyrics to Never Gonna Fall in Love Again in preparation for their inevitable return.

Catching up with my friend from high school has been brilliant. I have great memories of him from that time. We used to cause trouble in class and get yelled at by our home room teacher for being wise. I got sent out into the hall more than once. He was an instigator. I couldn’t resist. He was (and is) one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. I’ve always admired his confidence and his willingness to be completely authentic.

As for my friend from a more recent era, we didn’t end on such a good note. Each one of our brief encounters over the last few years have been distressed and afflicted. I was at a Starbuck’s on Sunday when I saw him across the parking lot. He walked over. “I heard about your accident,” he said. “Yup,” I responded. “Broke my legs skydiving.”

“Mmmm hmmm.” He crossed his arms, glancing down at me. A fellow adrenaline junkie, he didn’t seem surprised in the least.

“I feel good,” I looked away. Uncomfortable silence settling in. Awkward.

“Can I wheel you in?”

“Sure,” I hesitated. The image of a major argument we’d had a few years ago, flashed through my mind. I felt like I should have one of those “Baby On Board” signs around my neck… except mine would read, “Don’t Tip The Ex-Girlfriend onto the Pavement.” He wheeled me in, unscathed.

“Is it OK if I sit here?” He gestured toward the chair on my right.

“Of course!” I answered a little too enthusiastically. I’m so not good at this kind of thing. I sensed neither of us knew where this was going.

We caught up on three years of kids, work and projects we’d been involved in.

“My daughter is doing well, but has my sharp tongue,” he said.

“Hmm. Shocker.” I responded. Crap. Why do you have to be such a wise ass, Aimee.

One of our down falls, way back when, was our dedication to consistently one-upping each other via sarcasm.

A girlfriend once said that each time you use sarcasm, you deeply injure the person your directing it towards. What a visual. It makes me cringe. I use it to put up walls. Instead of letting someone know how I really feel, like, “Wow, you’re a really good dad and it makes me kind of sad that i haven’t seen you or your daughter in 3 years,” it was easier to protect myself with an astringent remark.

Someone at a far table was clearly seeking attention and speaking over everyone else around her. He and I exchanged looks and started laughing. A shared sense of humor diffused the situation a little more. By the end of the conversation, we were both relieved to have reached a manner of peace.

I felt as if a hundred pound weight had been lifted. Some kind of healing happened, in Starbucks, home of the Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino Blended Coffee – no whip. What the hell does that mean, anyway.

My girlfriend wheeled me out to the van. “Where do you know him from?” she questioned.

“We dated a while back. That’s the first time we’ve talked in years.” I said.

“Wow, you wouldn’t know it. Looked to me like you were good friends,” she said.

“Really.” Once again, inside != outside.

I keep forgetting that people can’t see what’s happening on the inside. I walk around feeling like I’m completely transparent. Im sure there’s some psychological term for that. Fantastic. Something else that needs to be addressed at some point.

A good friend was here visiting this morning. “How you been?” he asked.

“Tuesday was kinda rough… ” I said.”I lit candles and just stared at them for an hour. It was more like an exercise in patience. Just sitting with the feeling and letting it pass.” I know guys hate the “F” word, but he asked.

“I can see your knuckles are all bloody from trying to drag yourself to my house to talk about it,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess I coulda called.”

“Um, yeah.” He responded.

It’s eight hours later. He called just now to check in: ”How’s my single-friend-on-a-rainy-day-sitting-all-by-herself-who-nobody-loves doing?”

I burst out laughing. Sarcasm in all its glory. This stuff is in my DNA.

I have wonderful friends around me who make me laugh. People check in on me and actually care about how I’m doing. Sometimes I don’t realize what’s bothering me until it’s lifted, like the weight from that poorly-resolved relationship from a few years back. I’ve worried about how things had ended. We both got hurt in the process. It’s unlikely we’ll talk again, but I know that some kind of healing happened over a latte.

Everyone’s a teacher. My friend from high school inspires me by his creativity and authenticity. I’m happy that I am still affected by him in this way. My ex-boyfriend from a few years back taught me that forgiveness can happen one day over coffee when you least expect it. And my buddy from this morning reminds me to wear life like a loose garment.

People come in and out of our lives… and back in again. They’re here for a reason. While I may not be too good at articulating how I feel on the inside, I have learned not to hold on too tightly to anyone on the outside. And for the record, I’ll try to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. Not.

This morning, I read a journal entry from August 8, 2006. Sometimes I wonder why I look back on this stuff. Glutton for punishment? Im hesitant to open these journal entries for fear it will unleash some onslaught of emotion I’ve long since buried. What I usually discover though, is a healthy dose of perspective.

At the time of entry, I was living on my own for the first time in ten years. I had rented an apartment in town and was six months into a new career. My divorce had been final for a season and I was set on making a new home for my girls. I was stunned at what had transpired that year. Besides being terribly absent minded, I needed guidance doing simple things like grocery shopping. I remember ripping out magazine photos of what the contents of a healthy fridge should look like and plastering them on the door.

I had also just survived my first, albeit brief, relationship as a newly single woman. Not the brightest idea, right out of a divorce, but I’m human. With 20/20 hindsight I see now that I was mourning the loss of my previous life so heavily that I had little or nothing to give him. With divorce comes a tremendous amount of grieving, mixed with a measure of adrenaline-charged excitement; a tempestuous combination.

Your children dream of growing up with both parents under the same roof. I was deeply altering this aspiration. It was the right decision for their dad and me. Our kids will never (nor do i expect them to) concur.

Fear held a monopoly on my thoughts. In fact, that journal entry was appropriately titled: 2006Aug08_FEAR. 

I listed out all the things I was terrified of at the time:

What if can’t support myself?

What if I can’t hack being alone?

What did i get myself into? What have I done getting divorced?

What if something happens to my health?

What if I never find love again? 

How will I recover from this recent heartbreak?

How will I bear it when the loneliness from not having my girls, hits me?

What if Im a failure at work?

What if i get totally depressed and can’t function?

What if standing up for myself leaves me all alone? 

Bla bla bla.

Speaking of fear, what about speaking the truth. A childhood friend recently said that when he spoke his mind as a teenager, he always felt self-assured. Now he hesitates speaking up and frequently edits himself. Its affecting his self-esteem.

What would happen if you spoke your truth for just one day? Let me rephrase.. what if I spoke my truth for one day? Frankly, I anticipate that one or twelve of you would run screaming. After discussing this with another friend, he came back with, “Contrarily, what if we lied about everything for just one day?” I can’t win.

What elements of the truth do we hold from family and friends, to protect them? What elements do we hold close in order to protect ourselves? In other words, is it OK to lie, and to what extent? And what portion of this is dictated by fear?

Perspective Bitch addresses the girl from August 2006:

What if can’t support myself? Guess what, you just grew up.

What if I can’t hack being alone? Helloooo… echo…. yay, no one’s here.

What did i get myself into? What have I done getting divorced? Growth sucks. More please.

What if something happens to me health wise? Nice. Check.

What if I never find love again? Check. Check.

How will I recover from this heartbreak? This is starting to sound like a Disney movie.

How will I bear it when the loneliness hits without my girls? It hit nonstop for two years and I hit the ground – consistently. Then I got up.

What if Im a failure at work? You gotta job right?

What if i get totally depressed and can’t function? Funny, when you follow your intuition, you actually function better.

What if standing up for myself leaves me all alone? Well then its worth it.

So, our fears evolve. The things you cannot conceive of seeing yourself through today, will present themselves little by little or they will change.  Ellie approaches her fears (and ambitions) through painting as well:

Its amazing how our fears can evolve from basic survival to living authentically. There are a couple things I’m currently struggling with. I fear that saying them may adversely affect the people involved. Maybe it won’t, I don’t know. I’ll hold off for now till it becomes clear what to do. Either way, in a year from now, it will be resolved. I know that there’s a healthy dose of perspective waiting on the other end. If nothing else, I’ll have a new series of paintings to show for it and the world may seem just a little more copacetic.

Check it out.

I’m going to dinner tonight. I know what to expect. The waitress will see us coming and kindly seat us as far as possible from the other patrons. Its a reflection on how much fun we have. Some people don’t have a tolerance for being around us for very long, that’s probably because we’re lunatics.

The other night I proposed, “I think I’m avoiding dating because I’m having too much fun with my friends. I’m using this as an excuse to avoid getting involved with anyone.”

“I disagree,” One of the lunatics responded. “Friendships help build foundations for relationships, you figure out what works, what doesn’t. You establish trust and determine what’s safe… how to give and receive.”

“I can’t help but think I’m playing it safe right now.” I said.

Playing it safe. My stomach turns. Its like discovering something that scares you, you have to confront it. Currently, my idea of living on the edge is running head first into an Unreal Tournament battle without backup. Another lunatic keeps me humble by frequently mocking me. Covering his mouth with his hands, he gives a dead-on Death Race movie-trailer impression: “Killing Spree.” My girls would rather browse the American Girl website then play an FPS with me. My intention to raise little gamers is being erroded by Chrissa, “Girl of the Year.” Bitch. 

I’ve had too much time to think. Comrade Loneliness has been making appearances lately. Like an ex husband, we don’t have to like each other, but we hold a healthy respect for what the other is capable of. If I give Loneliness the cold shoulder, he calls in his friends. They never fail to trash my house. If he abuses his power, I go right from Dinner with Loneliness to Affair with Depression. I can hear him now: “You just need to understand the rules, Aimee.”

My girlfriend and fellow lunatic has been carting me back and forth – to and from physical therapy. “Look Aim, no heels.” Known for her amazing shoe collection, I’m stunned that she even owns a pair of flats. Now, that is a true friend.

She keeps relationships simple, “You be nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. And everything will be nice.” She says this with an authoritative tone, as if talking to a child (or a guy she’s dating). Of course I think I’ve already integrated this into my skill set, but I can’t help but wonder if playing FPS’s makes me emotionally 12. I suspect I’m a prime candidate for her advice.

The reason I bring up all the loneliness and dating stuff up, is because I often try to fill the former with some form of the latter. This NEVER works. There are times that I felt more alone in a relationship (romantic, or friendship) than just being on my own. I’m learning how to recognize Loneliness and just give it the space it deserves. Aspects of it will be with me for the long haul. I’ve recently established a new rule with Loneliness. I give ‘em ten minutes to do whatever he wants, after that, I ask him to leave. If he gets out of line, I can always call in my Lunatics for back up.

“Good! Getting better each day.”

“Mmmm hmm… how are you really doing, emotionally?”

Silence.

The question caught me off guard. I’m not used to checking in with how I feel. Coming up with an articulate answer feels like a crash course in Farsi. I got choked up and stumbled over the few words I managed to spit out. “I um.. well, hanging in there… I guess..” Damn… tears. “The last time I cried, it was ’cause the lady next to me in the hospital kept me up all night — making snoring/coughing/choking sounds.. how come this all is hitting me now?” Sarah has always been able to cut through the bullshit and get me to talk.

I’d rather just say I’m fine. It’s easier, but it’s not honest. This week in particular, I keep getting the sense that I’m hitting a wall. “If it wasn’t for you meddling feelings.” We talked some more and realized that its just fear. I’ve been developing such strong connections with the people in my life these last five weeks. My sister, my mom, my friends. Relationships with the people close me have strengthened tremendously. I feel spoiled because of it. Worse, I’m afraid it will end.

The fact is, I have a visceral response when I think about how much they mean to me. Oddly enough, I am astounded that people actually want to stop over, call, help out. It not due to a lack of self-esteem, its a healthy respect for their busy lives. I am unbelievably touched by their generosity of spirit, their gift of time. These people are teaching me how to accept help and how to give back. They make up my Wisdom Bearing Community.

This term was introduced to me by my friend Lisa. It’s an extraordinary way to describe the quality of communities in your life. In my career, I am obsessed with Online Social Communities and how to build and facilitate them. Learning this term offers a method of expressing their value, a way to quantify their meaning.

On Wednesday, Robb came over with Lebanese from Layla’s. As we caught up, we exchanged gratitude for our friendship. We became friends when I was 18. In my sophomore year of college, I was an art chic dressed all in black (inventive, I know). When I met his mom for the first time, she took one look at me, then dropped her gaze to meet to my black Doc Martin knock offs. Completely ignoring my dyed green hair, she later commented to him: ”What’s up with her shoes?” Priorities, I thought, my kinda girl. Our friendship has lasted all the big stuff life has to offer (and as of July, half my life). He is a part of my Wisdom Bearing Community.

Sarah suggested I start letting the people close to me know I feel. News to me. As I discussed it with another friend this morning, he replied: “You know, even when you get back to work and things pick up again, we’re all coming with you. You’re reinforcing your base right now. This will just make you stronger.”

He’s right.

My Holistic Health Counselor came over last night and taught me how to make smoothies and to eat for the best recovery possible. I’m attempting to ditch VB6 status (A person who eats a vegan diet before 6:00 PM, and then whatever they want after that.) I’ve downed more green drinks than Richard Simmons has made appearances on cheesy sitcoms. On the level, I’m surprised at how much I enjoy them. Physical healing is a priority right now and Dave is helping me accomplish that. And thanks to Sarah, emotional healing (aka: letting people in) has also become a priority. Sarah and Dave are both a part of my Wisdom Bearing Community.

It’s OK -not- to say your fine all the time. It allows others to see your human side. It allows them to let their guard down, too. I never realized letting people know what your going through, was a form of honesty. Apparently, I’m a little slow on the uptake. As for the emotional and physical stuff, I’m convinced their healing go hand in hand. In the next couple months I look forward to strengthening my own community as I rehabilitate both.

A friend brought me to the city on Friday. He dropped me off at the Hospital for Special Surgery and went to park the van. I wheeled myself up to the receptionist to check in.  ”I’m sorry but your doctor sees patients across the street in the Starr Building now.” Fantastic. How the hell am I supposed to get over there. I can barely see over the desk as it is. Wait, don’t back up! Where’d you go? My face must have manifested a mixture of panic and frustration. She resurfaced with a valet. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you,” he reassured.

I was at the mercy of my driver. As we darted through traffic, I fought every impulse to grab the wheels and take control. With my luck, my interference would have us both hurdling over the leg rests and back in the hospital. You gotta trust him, Aim, just relax. We weaved through ambulances and delivery vans across the street to New York Presbyterian. 

After a few failed attempts, we found my surgeon’s lobby. I grabbed my iPhone to let my buddy know where I was. This place is a maze. He’s never going to find it. 

“What’dya do?” A patient sitting across from me asked. Crap. Can’t you see I’m projecting how my doctor is going to have his way with my ankles? I’m in the throws of an anxiety attack here. “Skydiving accident.” I went back to texting.

“Oh, I’m a skydiver, too! I’ve gone 10 times.” Shocker. What are the odds running into each other in the orthopaedic trauma surgeon’s waiting room.

I looked up and noticed a cam boot on his left leg and what seemed like a sea of stitches rising above his knee.

“When was your accident? Is this your first post op visit? When will you be walking again?” he probed.

Not getting the hint, he is.

Saved by the nurse. She shuttled him off to his appointment. Two and a half hours later, she came back for me. 

I don’t know what I expected. When they cut the bandages off my legs, all i could see was Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas… I can deal. “We’re taking the stitches out today.” Done dealing.

There’s something unnerving about returning to the place of surgery. I immediately expect to be poked and jabbed. Nurses, radiologists, anesthesiologists, phlebotomists parading in, stage left.  It’s a scene out of Jesus Christ Superstar. The close of Act 1 and Annas, Caiaphas, and Judas are belting out “Blood Money”. The curtains close. I come back to earth. There’s a lone nurse to my right. I look away from her working with tweezers and medical scissors to remove the stitches. Trust her, don’t move. Relax. You’re at the beach. Your sitting on the OWW! freaking beach.

Lunch with a close friend followed the post-op, along with an abundance of laughter. In fact that’s most of what I do these days. It doesn’t really matter how I feel, physically, laughter permeates our conversations. Andrea called me today and made me laugh. I miss her sharp wit and friendship at the office. Robb encouraged me to make up wild stories about my scars. Something about ninja skydiving into shark infested water. 

I laughed before the accident, but quite not as frequently as I do now. What’s ironic is that Im completely confined to a wheelchair and require assistance to get into the shower. I can’t cook for myself and the bee that got in the house last night suddenly became the focus of my attention. For 3 hours. Did I mention the bowl on the second shelf in my kitchen that is completely out of my reach yet mocks me each time I open the cabinet door? 

A few months ago, it was my intention to slow down and spend more time with friends and family. I guess i should have been more specific. Someone out there has a sense of humor and is sharing it with me on a daily basis. I’ve had 30 days of laughter, kindness, compassion and time with family and friends. As for the extraordinary acts of kindness, it’s hard to be on the receiving end and just… receive. I never thought an impetus for getting better would be driven by a desire to pay it forward. A few more 30 days from now and I’ll have the opportunity, laughter and all.

With that said, the bright idea to skydive crossed my mind, just to “do something different.” I realized that jumping was purely reactionary to the divorce. Along with the divorce, I promptly filed it under “crazy.”

Morning commute , April 16th, 2009. I have tomorrow off.. Hmmm… clean the house or… skydive? 

I called and made a reservation. I didn’t tell anyone and was nervous as hell. 

The next morning, Friday, April 17th, I drove up to the dropzone in upstate NY, blasting music, windows down. I kept telling myself, “I’ll just drive there. I don’t have to go through with it. Just show up and see what happens.”

After arriving I met the guy who I would entrust my life to. “Im Marius, I’ll be your instructor.” All I heard was a mesmerizing Romanian accent and what’s this? He has flames on his jumpsuit? Sweet Jesus.

“Why do you want to skydive today, Aimee?” Good freaking question.

“Um… I just wanna try something new?!!” Yeah right. There’s a -new- Rauschenberg anthology at the library. 

So Im scared to death and unfortunately for me, I have a newly formed weakness for thirty-something, risk taking professional skydivers. Did I mention the accent? According to the Official Romania Travel and Tourism site, “foreign visitors consider Romanians among the friendliest and most hospitable people on earth. Romanians are by nature fun loving, warm, playful, with an innate sense of humor.” I know, I was strapped to one.

The jump was amazing and when we landed I immediately said, “I want to go again!” Damn. Addiction setting in.

On my drive home, I kept thinking, “I can’t believe I jumped out of a plane!! I can’t believe it!! Oh my God!!!”

For the next few days i would look longingly up at the sky each time a small aircraft would fly by. I started dreaming of flying, something that hadn’t happened since I was little. In fact the whole thing made me feel like I was a kid again. It was all I could think about. 

So, that was the beginning of my painfully short-lived skydiving career. A couple more tandems, ground course and wind tunnel flying, then my first and last solo jump.

The divorce and skydiving have one major thing in common. Stepping into the unknown and facing unbelievable fear. 

Divorce: How will I raise these beautiful little girls on my own? How will I hold up in a demanding, challenging career? How will I manage all this and a house and sick kids and… read: noise. Skydiving: Holy crap, what if we tumble? What if my lines are twisted? What if I have a bad landing and… read: noise.

Most of my fears came to pass in both scenarios. And you know what?  Welcome to the human experience.

My life is exponentially larger now than it was three years ago. Those crazy ideas turned out to be not so crazy after all. They’re more akin to intuition wrapped in fear, with a thin layer of dischord. The next time one pops up, I’ll think I’ll skip “crazy” and file it under “evolution”, or maybe, I’ll just trust it. Imagine that.

making my bathroom wheelchair accessible

I bought this house two years ago, after a tough divorce and a substandard rental experience. I swore I would never rent again after paying the devil spawn $1700 a month to consistently invade my privacy.

I have great neighbors here. I know because I picked up the phone this morning and called one… for the first time, ever. When I was in the hospital, Joan left her number, offering to help drive the girls to and from school. Although my upper body is whipping into shape with all the wheel chair transfers, I was astounded at how heavy the phone felt prior to dialing her number.

I am always touched when someone reaches out to me for help, yet my pride and ego can rival the girth of the 47,000-panel AIDS quilt. I don’t want to need anyone. I don’t want to have to call anyone for help. Im “Miss Independent.” Interestingly enough, “Ms. Get Over Yourself ” just got  promoted and fired the ho.

Why does it take a couple broken legs to meet the neighbors?

My mom is kicking butt with the girls -and- I can tell her patience is wearing thin. She’s afraid this isn’t going to end. It will. I don’t want to be the source of her frustration. But I need her help.

I have a group of friends who have been bringing us meals religiously. I feel extremely blessed to be taken care of in this way. And I need their help.

There is no difference between this and other major life experiences I’ve had. It’s a deconstruction of my big fat ego so that I can reach out to my neighbors, friends, family, despite my fears of being rejected or needy or whatever. It allows me to be there for them, too.

Bob asked me if I want to put the walls back up after all of this is over with. “Nah, I like it this way. It really opens things up.” I’d rather not build the walls back up between me and the people I’m letting in, either. They help make this place a home. I can already tell the phone isn’t going to feel quite as heavy tomorrow.