Tonight is New Year’s Eve. It isn’t a “holiday” my husband and I have traditionally celebrated in any major way, mostly because my bedtime is around 9:00 p.m. This year will be much the same; our plan is to play a game in the late afternoon, have a festive meal (with the Christmas crackers I made a big deal about buying and then subsequently forgot to bring out on Christmas), and then relax in each other’s company. I’ll probably play “Auld Lang Syne” at some point, but only if I remember.
This is where it would be natural to segue into a lengthy NYE post of the “what a perfect time for reflection!” variety. New year, new beginnings, blah blah blah. Goodness knows that’s what I typically do.
It wouldn’t feel right to subject you to that particular indulgence this year, though, so I’ll keep this short and sweetish. After all, this NYE, I’m not making resolutions or consciously dissecting what’s gone right and what’s gone wrong over the past twelve months. Instead, I’m preparing for a relaxed night with my significant other—a night like most, a night on the couch choosing and watching something on the curated list of shows, movies, and documentaries we keep because we’re nerds. What I will say is that even a few months ago, the state of my health would have made this kind of casual togetherness impossible. We’ve worked hard to establish this new normal, a sustainable, realistic recovery plan that allows me to participate in life rather than being removed from it. All I need to do is look and keep moving forward within the parameters my treatment team and I have established.
And so I’ll greet 2022 tomorrow morning with relative indifference to the fact that it’s a new year; date documents “2021” for a few days until I mentally adjust; and otherwise modify nothing. Because, satisfyingly, there’s nothing, right now, to change.