Away from Home

For the good part of a year, I found it hard to believe that I was home. Funny, then, that I’m going to celebrate the end of that year by sleeping in a bed not my own.

The difference, of course, is that for the first time in what feels like forever, a night away from my apartment will a) be voluntary, b) not be in a hospital, and c) be spent with my husband.

Man oh man am I excited. Like, little-kid-on-Christmas-Eve excited. Little-kid-on-Christmas-Eve-who-just-received-a-pre-Christmas-gift-of-a-room-with-a-trampoline-floor excited, even. (Not that this was a childhood fantasy of mine or anything.)

I’m not sure whose idea it was that we mark my homeaversary by booking a room at a swanky hotel. If my memory serves me right (and, unlike during many neurological phases of my life, it now probably does!), it came to us over dinner. What better way, after all, to acknowledge how hard we’ve both worked to put ourselves in a position in which casually hopping on the subway and indulging in a staycay is well within the realm of possibility?

This little adventure is the start of a series of bigger ones. As I become stronger and more confident, we’re doing a good job pushing ourselves gently enough to be responsible but with enough force to keep riding this wave of happy anticipation and motivation. There are ripples, of course, ups as well as downs. But we’re learning to trust ourselves to stay afloat, and the more we do so, the more we’re able to enjoy the breeze and soak in the rays. Tomorrow, then, we’ll pack our things, head downtown, check in, order dinner, and spend the evening in a fully accessible suite. No personal nurse provided or required, and thank goodness for that.