I am home. Multiple asthma attacks and game losses later (except for Skipbo and Chicken Foot), I am home.

I think--if the wretch MS cells ravaging my brain allow me to--that I shall savor that first moment at the top of the attic stairs for the rest of my life. I shall cherish the glimpse G and B gave me of the magnitude of God's love. I shall treasure the gift of their friendship, made so tangible in that moment, with me always.

However, I am home...and am more convinced than ever, even as I hope for an invite again at Thanksgiving, that I should remain so. It is not fair or right or very loving at all to inflict my illnesses and difficulties and all on other people.

I am refreshed by being with B, but I am exhausted from the strain of the multiple asthma attacks (both on my breathing and my sleeping). I am tired from trying to compensate by the drama of my health by being on my feet too long and washing as many dishes as possible. I am fatigued from my own disappointment at not being able to have a crisis free visit (I know that must sound silly). I am loathe to think of how I shall make it through this week for want of a day or more of sleep. I am loathe to think of how I shall make it through this week with such jumbled thoughts in my mind and heart.
Why must the blessings God showers upon me be accompanied by a battering as well?