Bills, Bills, Bills

An envelope arrived yesterday--a BIG envelope. Inside was not the guidance I sought for recovery but fifteen pages of doctor bills. Fifteen pages from a doctor who said "Hi, how are you today?" and waved good-bye.

My surgeon didn't do that. He stayed, explained, comforted. I didn't yet get the bill for his skill and compassion.

I don't resent the amount of money these physicians get for their services. My life is worth far more than whatever they could charge.

I look at my husband, my sons and their families, my friends on and off Facebook. I am the only one who knows how close I came to never being with them again. Because of my pride (the no-insurance thing), my fear and my denial I nearly lost it all. There is no way I can make it up to them except to take care of myself.

Sometimes being human is a challenge. I want, I want, I want. I want things. It has taken this trauma to rid me --at least for now--of the material wants. Instead I crave friends, closeness, touch--and those are the very things that will help me to heal, not the jewelry and the clothes (if, however, you are so inclined, I really do like fancy costume jewelry, Bombay gin and Skinny Cow chocolates. Oh, and flowers).

I am antsy. I went back to church after ten days. I can do stairsteps and Walmart, have gone to see friends and gone to dinner. I'm back to playing computer games. I joined the reunion committee.  I've done some laundry and cleaned out a few things. I'm mending. My next step is to drive, and come Friday I will do just that (no, Doc, no long trips, just short hops). 

One day at a time, one day at a time.

So the bills keep coming. Yes, for another several months at least. In spite of the fact that there are so many, so much and so long...well, I know that even though the debt scares me, I have those bills because I am alive. 

It's  a very small price to pay.