My world sort of imploded in the last two weeks.
Now keep in mind that for the last month and a half, I have been preparing to move. I've been sorting and tossing and stirring up dust motes that have left me sneezing and with runny eyes more than once. During that time, my house has been a disaster area with boxes upon boxes stacked up everywhere.
Two weeks ago (and two weeks before our closing date on the house), my father suffered a moderate stroke. I flew out to Denver to be with him for a few days last week. He's doing well and should make a complete recovery. I'm so, so glad I went, but the trip left me exhausted. Still, I figured I had a good week in which to get more packing done.
Then Monday hit. I felt like a tank had plowed me over, and I stayed home sick from work. That morning, my husband went to the dermatologist for a skin infection. They sent him straight to the ER and he was later admitted to the hospital for a staph infection. If you've followed my blog, you'll know that in 2007 he had a very long hospital stay with a particularly nasty staph infection.
I don't mind telling you my panic button flashed bright red.
Not only was the house not yet packed, but my husband, the man who had once been a professional mover in Germany and is one of the hardest working men I know, was out for the count. Worse, I was terrified we would end up on the same long journey as last time with days turning into weeks at the hospital. And I was terrified he would still be in the hospital today (Friday), the day that we closed on the house and started to move in.
Each day crawled by. I still felt horrible and spent much of the day in bed, texting my husband who was stuck in the hospital. Both of us were sick and we couldn't take care of each other. And we were making contingency plans for the move and for the closing. I called my realtor, asked what we could do in case my husband wasn't available to sign the documents. I brainstormed a list of people I could get to help us move.
But thankfully, the good Lord took care of us. My husband was dismissed from the hospital yesterday (albeit with two big containers of antibiotics for the staph infection) and feeling pretty darn great.
This morning, we closed on the house and as of this writing, my husband is packing up what he can in the moving truck. We have a whole posse of people coming to help us tomorrow.
I'm so excited to be in a house that doesn't have a leaky basement and older than dirt windows and a cracked front window! No more landlady showing up in our driveway, honking her horn, summoning us to her side to discuss something or other. We are the king and queen of our castle once again! :D
But in all of this, there is a longing tugging at me. My writing. I want to work on my novel so badly, but I have literally not had the time or the head space for it.
However, we won't have cable or internet at the new place until Tuesday, and I plan to take advantage of it.
I'm utterly exhausted, both emotionally and physically. My body is crying for a day of rest. But there's too much to do yet.
I will have to stick to my mantra to make it through: "One day at a time."
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