Last night in Nashville we went out for our friend Mallory’s birthday. Y’all, I don’t mind saying it was an effort. For whatever reason, despite the fact that we were at a hip restaurant (The Goat) surrounded by lovely people, I just couldn’t quite turn it on. What’s the saying? My heart wasn’t in it. Still, I tried to be pleasant and managed to hang in there until the very end. When things concluded, it was one in the morning, and we were at a smoke-filled, karaoke-singing, dive bar. (Use your imagination. If you need help, think The Fifth Circle of Hell.) Then we came back to where we’re staying (my friend Bonnie’s son’s house), and I passed out hard.

By that I mean I woke up every two hours to reposition my bum leg or use the bathroom.

Today none of us got up before noon, and we all took our time getting ready. After doing my rehab exercises and eating breakfast, I took a shower, and I can’t tell you how proud I was of myself for cleaning up. Sad that I now consider bathing a personal triumph, but I do. (Everything is such an effort.) This afternoon Bonnie and I ran some errands then went to Mallory’s house so Mallory could open her birthday gifts from Bonnie. There I did more rehab exercises and took this silly photo with Mallory’s pink mask and superhero cape. Don’t ask why she owns these things. (Ask why you don’t.)

Here’s how I know I’m not completely beat. I still have a sense of humor. Sure, everything tires me out, and I don’t have a lot of enthusiasm for life right now, but I can still laugh. That’s something. Last night at The Goat, there was a book about a rescue farm for actual goats, and it included a picture of a goat with no hind legs. Instead, it had a contraption with two wheels strapped on, so it could use its front legs and pull itself around. Anyway, first I laughed, then, remembering my bum leg, I cried. I thought, I understand, little goat. I understand.

Another thing at the restaurant last night. In the men’s restroom, there was writing on the walls and mirrors. Like, one mirror said, “So fresh,” and another mirror said, “So clean.” But the writing that I loved the best was inside the stall and had arrows pointing to the handrails by the toilet. It said, “Emotional support.” Talk about clever.

Emotional support. What a big deal. Lately I’ve been seriously dragging ass, and–I don’t know–it’s been easy to feel like a burden to others. There for a few weeks when I couldn’t walk, my parents were making me meals, bringing me my laptop, whatever. Even now that I’m more mobile, my friends are walking slower to accommodate me. Last night my friend Bonnie sat with me when I didn’t feel like socializing, and not once this weekend has indicated that I needed to hurry up or even be up, physically or in spirits. Talk about emotional support–no one making demands on me to be any different than I am in this moment.

For this, I am grateful.

This support is something I’m still processing. Hell, I’m still processing this whole experience. Most the time, it doesn’t seem real. I wake up in the middle of the night, stand up to use the restroom, my leg falters, and I think, Oh yeah, this is real. This afternoon I told someone I was a dancer but that it’d be six months before I could dance again. Shit, this is real. In some moments, I can see the light. In others, I can’t find even a twinkle. But I’m discovering this is part of the journey, to allow myself to be both happy and sad, to feel both hope and despair. And this is all I can come up with right now for a conclusion, that some challenges in life are simply big. Massive, they come to us uninvited (who’d choose them?), stretching our heads and hearts, inviting us to let more support in, more love in.