I’ve been re-reading some of Alice Seabold’s memoir of that same title. She was, in some ways, the inspiration behind Lymphomania. I’m awed by her honesty, humanity, and humor in light of what she experienced.
And so, in turn, I’ve been thinking about that word lately. A lot. Like alotta lot. Even before this weekend. But especially yesterday.
As miserable as I’m feeling physically, I’m still wrapped in this snuggly blanket of gratitude – gratitude that Dad’s recovering so well from surgery, that nothing happened yesterday, that the Lymphomania fan page is filled with supportive comments – some from people I’ve never even met, that I awoke this morning to the sounds of birds – which then woke the cats up and sent them scampering down the stairs of this lovely house, that I spent the evening with Rocco – home safe from the city – sorting the boxes of second hand baby clothes we’ve received from our ridiculously generous friends and family, that you guys tolerate me being weepy AND vagina-centric all in the same post….
Today, after yesterday’s mourning, just seems like the kind of day to celebrate such things. But frankly, I think I’m a little too hormonal to try and put it into words without sounding melodramatic, douchey, or super sappy…you know, basically like a Nicholas Sparks novel, so maybe I’ll just let Ben Folds talk for me.
Happy Monday, lovelies. And thanks.