Just over a week before Christmas, I had a seizure and needed to be brought to an acute-care hospital. The next day, still in the ICU, I had another seizure, tried to get out of bed, fell, and broke my hip, an injury requiring surgery. A few days later, I went into status epilepticus again and was intubated as a precaution. It was on Christmas itself that I was stable enough to be taken off life support.

Much of this is, of course, either a blank or a blur. I have no memory of the period right after I was intubated—Christmas and Boxing Day included—and only foggy ones of the days following that. (As is usually the case when I recount events surrounding a seizure, I’m an unreliable narrator of my own story; the broad strokes, however, I collected from my husband, and the fine details I simply omitted.)

Missing Christmas would’ve been a real bummer if my husband and I hadn’t already delayed our celebration of it. I hadn’t been doing particularly well, and preparing for the holidays on top of focusing on rehab was bringing stress rather than joy, which was a true bummer since the preparations are the part of the festive season I enjoy the most.

And so we’d decided that our Christmas would be in late January. One of the biggest skills I’ve been developing is that of being flexible, and this had struck me as a good place to apply it. We’ll thus hang our stockings with the usual care this year, only on January 27 rather than on December 24. My husband assures me that Santa has been informed and knows where to find me.


One thought on “Christmas

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