Well, my husband is home. We survived eight weeks apart, and most importantly, neither of us were diagnosed with anything life-changing. Or really anything at all. In fact, nothing of major note happened at all. Isn't that beautiful.
Since this is my blog, and I get to say whatever I want here, I'm going to tell you the truth.
I've been freaking out a lot.
Especially on Friday. I was very nervous on Friday. It's not going to make a lot of sense to a lot of people, but I got the fairly life-changing diagnosis call on
the day that M finished school last time. In fact, I got the call
while he was being driven home. I had wanted to go pick him up, but there was
something he wanted to go to before I could get him home, so
he hitched a ride.
If my diagnosis had come in the middle of a work day, while M was just at work, or while I was home, eating lunch, or during any normal, run-of-the-mill moment in my life, I would be over it by now. I would have repeated that exact moment over and over again until that specific set of circumstances would be manageable. But it didn't. It happened during a set of circumstances that had never happened before, but would happen again.