But the holidays are kind of hard when you're dying, too. The sentimentality that goes along ith a lot of Christmas songs and traditions can cause a sudden black wall of depression, even despair, to rise in the heart.
Maybe it's the "let's all be happy together" thing, and one feels like one's looking in through a closed window. Maybe it's memories of Christmases Past, when pain and unstoppable dry heaves (and worse) weren't a part of every moment, waking or not.
I can't remember the good Christmases. I can't remember what it was like to feel good. Or even 'ok'.
I remember faces that are missing, though. Too many.
So I'm being careful. Barb's got a Christmas special on the telly in the living room. I'm at the other end of the house, rocking out to The Digital Age.
It's a self-preservation thing.
So here's The Digital Age, with Captured.
Thanks to Carol Ashby, Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart is back on Kindle, and will be available in paperback soon.
Friends are everything. I couldn't have done it.