A little more than 6 years ago I was in a recliner in the front room and so proud of myself because I had made it to the recliner without any help. I had recently spent time in the hospital for heart issues (sudden onset) and then many more weeks too sick to get out of bed without help.

However, after a while of only making it to the recliner I was seriously depressed. The doctors didn’t give me a very good prognosis for ever returning to a “normal” life. Most of the time I was too sick to even go watch my boys play ball in the front yard. I had been a very active person. Not being able to do much more than sit made me feel worthless. What’s the point of living if everything I loved to do was taken from me?

I made up a story to keep me from thinking about how pathetic my life had become and then start writing the story down. That story gave me a reason to try to continue to make it to the recliner ever day; my boys would come to my room to say hi, but my story notebook stayed by the recliner.

It seemed silly that I would even attempt to write. I’m dyslexic. Reading, spelling and the like was a serious chore for me, but I didn’t have anything better to do.

I have astounded the doctors with my health improvements over the years, but every step has been a struggle. A struggle to keep moving even when I was so out of breath. A struggle to not be depressed. A struggle to not be upset when someone thought I was faking it because they happened to see the one hour that I was up doing something that day. A struggle to accept what my life was. A struggle not to overdo it because I could do a little but wanted to be able to do a lot. A struggle to find something to give meaning to my countless hours sitting.

I decided early on that writing was what I was going to do to bring meaning to my life. Somehow I was able to find enjoyment in writing even though it was not something that came easy to me.

I recently finished a goal I’ve been working towards for many years. I published my first two book and am so proud of myself. I suppose just like when I made it to the recliner all those years ago it seems a bit ludicrous how happy with myself I am, but when you work very  hard for a long time and succeed, even in a small way – it seems like something to celebrate. Because if I don’t celebrate the small things I’d never celebrate and celebrating makes life much better.