I know - it's another two-letter day. Sorry to inflict another letter on you.
I was watching a show on television about a man that murdered his wife (thank you for not ever doing that). Central to the car accident was the fact that she was riding in the car without her seat belt on, something her family said she would never have done. Well, my sadly-deficient brain stood up and said, "If anybody kills me and tries that, John will tell everybody that I was a critical care nurse and I never moved the car three feet without having the seat belt on. Then I realized you aren't here to talk to the police about me at all.
Not an hour later, I was thinking about a friend who believes, and I agree with him, that he has fibromyalgia. He needs Lupus ruled out, but it sounds just like fibro. I emailed him a letter and some info and humor I have on Pinterest. And this evening I was thinking that I have to get you set up to talk to his wife about being married to a fibromite. And again, I realized that I can't do that.
Do you see how much inconvenience you're causing? Not to mentions stress and strain on my already-insufficient mental faculties? If normal widows think in such a random fashion, it's a wonder any of us can feed ourselves. We've talked a bit on the WFF site about many layers you have to work through to believe that this bereavement is permanent. Obviously I continue to muddle through layers.
I just had to tell you those two things before turning out the light. We're all piled up in bed, and I believe I'm the only one still awake. That will be remedied shortly. And by the way, if you do want to show up for any of these conversations, you'd be more than welcome.
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