I think as a nation we are somewhat conditioned to having that saving twist-the something/someone comes in to save the day kind of ending-to beat the bad guy. Personally for me I blame sitcoms and Sweet Valley High books. 5 years ago today I was forced to resign due to medical reasons from teaching, sent packing, and was home moved in with my parents a day or so later. Needless to say it was a tough Christmas.
I really thought that after 6 months to a year-after resting and regaining the strength from my 3 year battle with a very complicated broken ankle that put my fibromyalgia in a tailspin that I would somehow get better and start a new plan. For at least 2-3 years mom and dad talked about getting me into an apartment when I got better-I think they just needed to hold on to hope that I would rebound. Within year 3-4 thankfully for my sake that subject of job/apartment/etc. stopped.
I consider myself so blessed-so lucky that my parents stepped in and swooped me up without batting an eye. I could be going through this and be homeless, or in a country where women aren't even allowed medical care, or in a remote part of the world where technology couldn't help me have a window out of my battered, cramped, crinkled cocoon. Along with that of course comes the crushing grief of what was lost 5 years ago. I don't feel sorry for myself-but I do allow myself to grieve. For the chronically ill grieving is an ongoing process. Everyday almost we stubble across something that reminds us of the old me, the old life, the old plan. Yet I strive daily to give myself the freedom to grieve along with the freedom to keep going. Not to a specific place or time, but just to hold on and try.
