I couldn't let this day pass without some kind of an acknowledgement. It's April 25th, you know, which makes it the perfect day: not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket.
But Miss Congeniality is not the reason I celebrate--or at least retain in remembrance--this day.
It's because I survived.
Not this day today (I'm almost there but I still have a few hours and one awake child to go), but this day seven years ago.
I remember every detail of that day: waking up, putting on the pink blouse my family had sent for Easter a few weeks before just because I knew my mom would like it, finishing my last minute packing, cleaning out my desk and taking down the taped-up scriptures and Ensign clippings, tracting and teaching for a few hours until it was time to haul my luggage to the Denton Institute, saying goodbye to my companions, watching as they started a lesson without me, and crying silent tears as I ate Sister Perkin's dark chocolate in the back of Brother and Sister Green's car as they drove me to the mission office. I remember the exhaustion, the stress, the loneliness, the anxiety, the guilt, the excitement, the swirling thoughts of "where do I go from here?" and "will I ever come back?"
I remember the Assistants driving me to the airport and them remarking about how well they knew their way around the airport--and thinking, but they've never had to get on that plane, so how much do they really know? I remember finding my gate--and finding my uncle standing underneath the gate sign. He'd heard I was flying home that day, but I think the fact that we ended up on the same flight was more Heavenly Father's doing than Uncle Gary's. And though it was awkward, it did feel nice to have someone familiar nearby.
I remember the plane ride home--the relief that I wasn't seated by my uncle, the nice gentleman that asked me about my tag and my health, the attempt to write in my journal. I remember searching the Utah landscape as the plane touched down just after sunset. I dragged my heels, but my Uncle waited for me anyway, and he and I walked to baggage claim together, where he made a joke to my mom about how he found me first and she said, "Get out of my way, Gary!" and ran toward me, throwing her arms around me as soon as I reached the finish line--the security sign? She held me so tight I couldn't breathe and it was oddly refreshing.
Behind her stood my father, my little brother, my sister. They were all there to take me home and I wasn't even sure that was home anymore. There were a few awkward jokes, but mostly just an awkward silence.
How do you handle life when it doesn't turn out the way you expected?
You deal.
I may or may not have cried myself to sleep that night--I don't remember. I do remember the relief on my mother's face, the worry on my brother's, the hug and kiss on the cheek from my father before I fell asleep in a room all by myself for the first time in eight and a half months.
I remember the shelter of being home and how that night, for the first time, I knew I would learn to deal with my disease and get feeling better because I had to--I had to go back.
I remember all these things, but I forgot about them today, until I went to mark off our scripture reading calendar and realized today's date was April 25th.
Today today was not a particularly rough, or funny, or memorable day. It consisted of cuddles, laundry, dishes, books, puzzles, PBS shows, a walk around the block (me pushing my baby in his stroller and my daughter pushing her baby in the doll stroller) in between rainstorms, breaking up fights, sending kids to timeout, dinner and family home evening.
When I fell asleep that night, I was looking toward the future. On this night, I do the same thing, with a nod to the past seven years. How could I have seen then the way my "intermission" would change the course of my life, how I found love during my transfer at home and healing in an almost-forbidden kiss?
I still bear daily the scars of my disease, the bruises and the extra pounds and the fatigue and the finger pricks and the stress and the worry about the future. I will end my evening tonight as I did seven years ago--with a shot of insulin to my stomach, made harder now because of the strech mark lacework decorating my abdomen. My body is still figuring itself out, and I'm still along for that ride.
And after I give myself that shot that some how always pinches a little more than I expect it to, I will once again look forward to going back to Texas.
But this time I won't be alone.
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