This week went actually rather well.

 

No crazy emotional outburst, my ulcer seems to be healing, medical food stays down, energy going up in tiny little steps. But at least it is going up. Which made me feel confident enough to go to physical therapy last Thursday.

 

The week before was terrible. Fun, but terrible. We played with foam balls like I was a one hundred and twelve year old person, sitting on a chair, with a terrible case of tremors. My curls were the only ones who gave the impression they were vibrantly happy, full on energy, shaking their entire length  like there was a hefty Salsa party going on. The rest of my body was like alabaster, the kind of white you could almost see through, and my whole posture was that of a weeping willow.  I could barely get home, and I slept the rest of the day having far more seizures in between than I could handle.

 

But this Thursday, I felt better. Probably because my stomach hurt less. So, after convincing my therapist of my enthusiastic-full-on-energy-ready- to -go!! , we played with foam balls like I was a vibrant one hundred and twelve year old, on a hip recovery. Standing on my feet like an athlete ready to begin, and wobbling around after 2 minutes, feeling exhausted, but…..happy.

 

I haven’t laughed so much during exercise in ages. Instead of being let down by my own body, and angry at myself for failing something simple, I actually had fun. Yes, I got exhausted within moments, but I played tennis this time. Which I hate, because I suck at it. And even hit the ball every time!!!  Okay, plastic rackets and a foam ball, but hé… Serena Williams also had to start from somewhere. Right?

 

I had such an positive glow after physical therapy, that I almost felt I could take on the world. I was so looking forward to Friday night. We were going to a company dinner of Ramon, and we would go out for a drink somewhere after. It’s been so long since we went out for a night, and I know how important it was for Ramon. A couple of years back, after his aunt died, we went for a drink in a bar, and had such a great ‘normal’ night out. He told me he missed this part of social life, and he missed flirting and ‘dancing’ with me without thinking of life for a moment. We continued our date nights, and we loved it both so much. But after our favourite bar ended up in flames, we stopped going out.

 

So this night, I wanted to go out. I wanted a little of what we had, here and now in Haarlem, after we would finish a lovely time with Ramon his colleagues. We went to the hairdresser the day before.

 

 

I could honestly not go out with my 6 months overdue haircut. So when we were ready to go, I looked fabulous. Dressed up nicely, pretty hair, a little make-up and some nice perfume. I felt great, strong, confident and happy.

 

 

Until we entered the restaurant. It was like a can of Sardines. Way too many people in a cramp room. My strong and fabulous appearance was thrown out the window within minutes. I wanted to cry. This was not how it was supposed to be. I could hold on to the main course, but then it was game over. Exhausted, excruciating headache, I could barely walk or see straight. So Ramon had to take me home.

 

 

I hadn’t even thanked his colleagues for the beautiful flowers they send to us over the weeks, which made me so happy. I hated myself. I was so disappointed with myself. But mostly because I couldn’t give Ramon a moment of normalcy. A fun night out, together.

 

But I didn’t want to pout, or feel bad. For a moment I looked and felt good, and I did get to see everyone, even if it was only for that short of time. And maybe we can still have a fun night out in Paris.

 

So when Ramon dropped me off, I lit the fourth candle on my Chanukkia, spoke my own little prayer softly in my head, and dropped myself on the couch.

 

 

Together with my little hope of light shining on our mantle, Kuzco and Malha, and aaaallllllll of her friends, snuggled against me, I let my sadness go. Tonight wasn’t all that bad, and it still was a rather good week.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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