I Am Not Ashamed Anymore
When my husband and I got married in 2001 I dragged that poor 25 year-old man/boy kicking and screaming into wedded bliss. One of my more effective tortures was to send out a holiday picture and "update" letter every year. At first he thought it was the lamest thing ever, but eventually he started having fun with it. One year we were at the bottom of Lombard Street (the twisty and turney one in San Francisco), another year we were on the beach, the three of us silhouetted by the tumultuous ocean and blazing sunset. Most years it is just a head shot with Yorkie and maybe the Christmas tree behind us, the years I look good, that is. The letters stopped in 2005 when I got sick. I had no idea how to send out a cheerful and upbeat update telling our friends and family that I had some strange mystery illness no one really took seriously. Instead of vacations and trips our exploits consisted of MRI's and CT's and FMLA and disability. I did not know what to say, felt I would ...