Happy "Lifeday"?

Today marks my two year anniversary of surviving my brain aneurysm. Pretty damn cool. Yes, to answer your question, I probably will remember this day for the rest of my life. Well, the date anyway - I don't recall the day at all, nor most of the ensuing month in ICU.

Tonight, I'll be going to dinner with my hubby to celebrate life, luck, blessings and joy. I was touched that when, while running errands this weekend and enjoying our Seattle summer, I said, "You know, it's been 2 years on Wednesday. I think we should go out to dinner to celebrate," he didn't even hesitate but felt exactly the same way. "Yes," he said, "Let's definitely do that."

What makes this doubly awesome is that I had a follow-up appointment with my retinal surgeon on Tuesday morning. Dr. Kinyoun diagnosed me with Terson Syndrome when I couldn't see for 6 weeks in the hospital, performed the surgery required to "clear out" my left eye and restore at least half my sight, discovered my subsequent torn retina and managed us through the emergency retinal reattachment surgery while we were home in Columbus for Thanksgiving that year - and all the followup visits thereafter. I was seeing him every 6 weeks for almost the first year, and had not seen him in a year when I went in this week. We were genuinely happy to see each other: my hair has grown longer and I'm back to my normal weight and pallor. He gave me the "all clear" on any issues left over from the Tersons - my right eye had completely re-absorbed all the blood that was in the vitreous, levaing no more "rose petals" in my vision. My only issue now is a cataract in my left eye caused by all the surgical traumas, which is being monitored and seems to be holding steady.

Arriving to my appointment early, I went to fetch a much-needed morning coffee - in the building right across from the ER. Now, mind you, I don't remember the ER at all, but every time I walk by it, I shudder. I think about Paul arriving after the ambulance pulled in, the commotion that must have ensued when they rushed me into a scan room and then surgery, the smell of disinfectant and fear, the horror he must have felt at hearing a doctor say, "We've saved her life but we have no idea what she'll be like when she comes out of this." I can't even imagine him going through that alone. I'm his wife: I should be there for him during those times, but I obviously couldn't be. It tears my heart into a thousand pieces. While I am spared that painful trauma, he feels it any time we're near a hospital.

I watched the ER doors. Blessedly, there was not much going on that day. I thought of all the lives that are forever changed by that entrance. I could almost envision the ambulances racing in, the families aimlessly wandering around in shock, the countless people who lose their loved ones through that doorway each and every day. So much pain, so much loss.

But I made it. We made it. I regained my vision, restored my strength, got back to my business - and even wrote a book this year, published in June. Did I come back wiser, more thankful, more "aware"? I'd like to think so. Even when stress takes over and I'm overwhelmed (with my brain injury, this happens a lot more often than it used to - I can't process as much stimuli as I did before), I take at least a second to say, "You're still here. Nothing else matters as much." And I breathe again.

So I went to my appointment and then drove home. I snuggled with my dog, smiled at the sun and thanked God for not being ready for me yet. And then I went back to work.