Tonight, as I toweled myself off after my shower,
this old post popped into my head.
As I looked in the mirror I saw tired eyes,
hair that has not been washed since Monday morning (which is a new record, even for me. And no, Twin, it doesn’t even look dirty)
and I thought to myself, threadbare.
 The real definition of the word is “becoming thin and tattered with age.”
I think that this past week did a number on me,
as I was already fragile from these past few months.
This week, over and over again, I thanked my lucky stars for my carbon monoxide detector,
and that something pulled me out of bed at 5am to hear it’s far away beeps.
So many people reached out to me this week. They asked if I was OK, asked to help, and told me that my story has haunted them, or motivated them to make changes in their home.
My husband and I are so glad to raise awareness on something so important, but, as he said, we’re ready to stop being the poster children for these hard things.
So I looked myself in the mirror,
and I smoothed on my eye creams and oils and moisturizers (I may never wash my hair but I am crazy for my skincare regimen)
and put on a t-shirt from one of my sister’s old Phish shows and a pair of her silk shorts,
and I realized that, as I wrote in that post so long ago,
I may be threadbare
and a bit of an eyesore
but I am still standing.
Through terrifying surgeries, heartbreaking complications,
losing too much blood and the devastating loss of good friends in my time of need,
through floods and hospital stays and times that were sad and scary and surreal
I am here. I am strong. I may look thin, I may look weak, I may have dirty hair, but I have survived.
I didn’t know that I would.
I am so grateful that I have.
And, just like my daughter’s hospital hat years ago,
I am now the best.
I am the best me I have ever been.
Here’s to the future,
and here’s to the past.

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