It was on a particularly challenging day last week that I received a message with an offer so generous it made me want to cry. (OK, fine; some tears were shed. I’m becoming an increasingly emotional beast with each passing year.)
It was from my LEGO Fairy, who wanted to know if she could purchase a newly released set for me—a set I’d been coveting since it was announced but that was well outside my price range.
You might remember the LEGO Fairy. She magically appears when I need her most, supplying (enabling?) what’s become both one of the most important tools in my recovery from several neurological and mental illnesses and, now, a hobby/obsession. I am, indeed, an outspoken Adult Fan of LEGO (AFOL) who proudly fills her home with LEGO, decorates for most holidays with LEGO, and counts the fact that she’s converted several friends into LEGO devotees among her greatest achievements.
Anyway, back to the LEGO Fairy. Her timing was, as always, truly uncanny. I had just decided to make a major, temporarily life-limiting change to my treatment plan and was experiencing some feelings, to put it lightly. It was the right thing to do, and I’m proud of myself for being proactive in vocalizing what I need to move forward. That said, I was—am—equally sad. Frustrated. Angry. Confused.
Given my current circumstances, the kind-hearted LEGO Fairy’s latest gesture is a gift twice over. In the concrete sense, it’s an incredible LEGO set that’ll provide me with hours and hours of joy and distraction. In a more abstract one, it’s a reminder of how full and meaningful my life is; of why I make difficult decisions regarding my health when they need to be made; and of why I slog along, day after day, when it’s sometimes tempting to call it quits. Thank you, LEGO Fairy, for helping me refocus and adjust.
And for the LEGO, obviously.