Right now, I am reviewing the first story of my Kindle Vella “Seasons of Love” and I should be working on the second one. However, I’m sitting in what had once been my library/writing room and it is difficult for me to concentrate. Behind me in a corner is a pile of boxes and wrapping bags — Christmas presents from the last few years — ones I’d bought but couldn’t wrap and/or mail.
I once loved doing everything for Christmas, selecting presents, decorating — one year I even baked 20 dozen cookies to give away.
I used to fill the bird feeders, scatter peanuts for the squirrels and crows, and sometimes pull weeds and plant flowers — working through long-term back pain. But things have changed in the last few years — because I have changed.
Several years ago, I had a stroke — -I was lucky, no major paralysis but my left arm is slightly weak. Which at the time was not a big problem since I’m right dominant. After my stroke we had a fire in our furnace and the company who came for the clean-up put two rooms of smokey stuff in boxes and piled them in the dining room.
That was four years ago, and the dining room is still filled with stuff.
Why didn’t I take care of it?
Most of the “stuff” was probably from my husband’s first wife and I didn’t want to throw out anything that her daughter or son might want. My stepdaughter had been upset when I gave an old loveseat away, even though she’d not been in her father’s house for years.
The stroke was the beginning of my health going downhill — multiple hospitalizations, surgeries, and declining physical abilities.
The stroke was five years after marrying my second husband, an older widower with two grown children — a son who lived about an hour away and a daughter who lived three hundred miles away.
The first five years of our marriage I spent most of my time taking care of my new husband — staying with him during many hospitalizations, helping him at home, making sure he got to appointments, trying to get him to follow physical therapy instructions along with relearning handwriting and the use of a computer — none of which he followed through on.