Recovery, One Paragraph at a Time

I spent nearly two weeks in hospital, back at the close of the year.  I'm setting an intention to write about that, rather than hide beneath the covers or hold it in extreme secrecy.  

My nada nearly hissed when she told me not to share the story with anyone.  I can still listen to those messages from voice mail, if I want to.  The long and the short of such messages is that sharing my journey with "people"  (presumeably people who know us both), is "embarrassing." It was after the word "embarrassing" that I can still hear the hiss. 

I'd rather tell my story than my mom's story of my illness.  Scary as it is.