My Christmas didn’t quite go as planned. In fact, I’m swirling in the aftermath and feeling pretty low.

This is my favorite holiday. I love gathering and watching those I love open gifts I picked out especially for them, and seeing what everyone else received. As I looked through the pictures we took today, there were too many frowns on too many faces and broken hearts etched on their chests.

Every year there is one gift I choose that keeps me excited and counting down the days until Christmas. This year it was a recipe book I made from my Grandmother’s old metal box of index cards.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time preparing it and then had it printed for a few family members who I knew would treasure the memories it represented. Only today’s misfortune overshadowed any gifts that were given.

The day has made me regretful, tearful, confused and mostly sad.

The wrapping paper is in the trash, the wonderful gifts are put away and I should probably just forget about what happened, but I can’t. My feelings are hurt and I’m feeling pretty down.

I am technically on vacation until January 7th, so I’m going to take a break from here as well. It’s almost been a year since I started this blog and it has been a wonderful journal that has allowed me to express things I can’t say in real life.

Thank you for listening. I’ll be back soon…

I haven’t posted much this week because I can’t seem to write anything concise. The same thoughts keep running through my mind as I mentally prepare for yet another surgery on Friday.

Today, someone said a prayer for me at a meeting I attended out-of-town for work. In her prayer she thanked God for seeing me through this “tragedy” in my life. The dictionary defines tragedy as “a lamentable, dreadful, or fatal event or affair; calamity; disaster.” My entire three hour drive home I couldn’t get that word out of my mind.

Everyone will face tragedy in their lives at some point and we each measure its effects differently. From the definition I would consider losing a loved one or your house burning down to be a tragedy. To me surviving a serious car accident against all odds is a triumph, no matter what the cost has been.

The road to here has been long and hard. There have been many times I’ve considered the alternative. What if I wasn’t here? Sometimes I resent myself for harboring anger and sadness that my life, as it is now, isn’t enough.

It should be MORE than I’m worthy of. I have a husband who loves my son and I more than anything else and would give his life for us without hesitation. I have a healthy, vibrant son who continues to love me unconditionally, despite my parenting faults. We have a house that we’ve made into a home and food to fill our cabinets. We may not be wealthy, but we are rich with family, friends and faith.

I know all this, yet I still can’t get past what I don’t have and what I still must face. The fact my left arm doesn’t straighten and that I must walk down steps one at a time, is not a tragedy. Displaying a few scars here and there isn’t a tragedy, it’s proof I’ve lived. Having only one child is not a tragedy either, in fact it’s a blessing many don’t have the opportunity to experience.

So the road has been long, but it has taken us out of what could have been a tragedy. For that I thank God.

I know I’ve said before that my in-laws weren’t exactly the sharpest crayon in the box. I may have even said they were certifiably crazy. Well here is your proof.

My husband’s grandfather passed away Sunday night. He was a very quiet man with a strong work ethic. I always enjoyed visiting him, because he lived simply. Nothing fancy here folks. One Christmas my father-in-law got him a remote starter for his car and his response after they explained what it did was, “The day I can’t start my own car, will be the day I quit driving.” His honesty and frankness reminded me a lot of my own grandmother, who also didn’t see the need for all the latest inventions.

My husband traveled alone (his choice) to the funeral this week. We stayed home because there were Christmas programs, work and pre-op appointments that really couldn’t be missed. Plus we were just up there by ourselves for a wedding.

Before that was decided his father asked if Ethan would want to be a paul bearer. Yes, that’s right our 5 year old carrying a casket! This boy can’t even pick up his own toys. It took a few minutes to catch our breath. Is that not one of the most ridiculous things you’ve ever heard?

It gets better. When they called my husband’s sister (you know the one with 4 illegitimate kids) to let her know about her grandfather’s death the first questions were - “When will you read the will?” & “When will you go through his house?” No kidding. She’s what you call a gold-digger.

My husband called last night to tell me that on the way to the funeral his sister ran off the road and hurt her neck. She ended up being transported to the same hospital (1 1/2 hours away) that her grandfather died at. They admitted her and it looks like she will be alright, but may need surgery down the road.

See any irony there? She missed the funeral, but thankfully was released today.

The best story I’ve heard thus far is that my husband found out some big family secret today at the funeral home. Turns out Grandpa was married once before and had another son and no one ever told him. It’s a little awkward when a guy (your father’s age) walks up and introduces himself to you as your Grandpa’s son, when as far as you know there are only two - your father and your uncle.

You couldn’t make this stuff up! Their family would make a great reality show. I can’t wait to hear all the other stories my husband will have of the insanity that always follows a trip to the “dreaded North” as we’ve named it.

For some good news ~ head over to Props & Pans to register to win a Bed Head Dual Wave Iron!!! I recently reviewed their ionic hair dryer and I must say it was pretty cool. The wave iron is part of their new “Light Me Up” collection.

This Thanksgiving holiday I am most thankful for the fact that I do not live on Little House on the Prairie. Although it’s felt like it this week!

Our water heater went out Sunday and it has taken several days to get a replacement part. Several days of cold showers and washing my hair in the kitchen sink. In addition our garage door opener quit working a few weeks ago and I’ve had to manually open and close it. I know, the horror.

About a month ago our garbage disposal had to be replaced and for several days I thought the world was going to end because I had to scrape off our plates in the trash.

A revelation came to me this week as I was grouchy about not having hot water and still complaining about the garage door. I’m spoiled. Maybe not spoiled, but I’ve taken for granted the everyday things that make my life easy.

So this year I recognize all the little things in life that I usually take for granted.

A husband who’ll boil endless pots of water so I can take a warm bath.

My son who’s huge heart has taught me the true meaning of unconditional love.

That the lights come on every time I flip a switch.

That when I’m sick I can get excellent medical care.

For a job that recognizes I have a family and they are my first priority.

That I don’t have to worry about where our next meal will come from.

That our house is a warm home.

For all the opportunities I’ve been given.

For family and friends who make me feel loved.

Simply for my life.

Happy Thanksgiving.

It’s a number. A number I’ve tried to avoid. In fact, I’ve spent the past year trying to bypass it. People ask about it and I shrug it off.

To most people it’s just a number. To me it’s much more.

It represents a significant time in my life. Despite my avoidance it’s still quickly approaching and I must come to terms with it.

Twenty seven is:
*The number of times I’m sure I told the fireman holding my hand, “Please tell them it wasn’t my fault.”
*The number of days I was on morphine.
*How many days passed before I was able to kiss my son.
*How old I was when I celebrated my birthday in the hospital after the accident.
*How old I was when my grandmother and cousin died within 3 weeks of each other.
*The number of doctors, specialists and surgeons I’ve been seen by.
*The number of months I spent in physical and occupational therapy.
*The number of times I’ve prayed silently, please no more.

When twenty six came around last January I prayed that it would end. That this would be as high as it got, but I knew it wasn’t over. I am thankful for the months in between, but that dread has set in yet again.

I’m familiar with the routine. Usually, I spend the month before fretting about the pain, worrying about whether or not it will be worth it and how our lives will go during the weeks I re-cooperate.

I know that I am not easy to live with after surgery, but my husband and family have all put up with me twenty six times. They know the aftermath of anesthesia, staples and crutches all too well.

And today the number represents how many days until we do it all over again.