My sweet husband decided that the publication of my very first novel deserved to be celebrated.
In grand style!
So my husband rented a small function room at our local golf course.
And we invited our neighbors and friends here in Tillamook to come share a delicious salmon dinner.
My hubby even had this nearly life-sized blow up of my book cover made up to decorate the room for the celebration.
It was going to be a wonderful celebration.
And for once, I wasn’t even nervous about having to be the center of attention–like I always am when I have to stand up in front of a room full of people.
When my first poetry collection came out, I seriously considered hiring a stunt double to give the readings for me.
(okay, I don’l look like Bowie or Tilda, but you get the idea)
But this time, I was genuinely excited and wanted to celebrate, even if I was going to read a snippet from the book.
I picked out a polka dot dress to wear because it seemed fun for the occasion without being too formal.
And a purple lace bolero to wear over it.
But you read the title of this post, so you know something went awry.
The party went off without a hitch. People had a lovely time. So what went wrong?
Well, only the fact that I couldn’t attend my own party!
My body decided to betray me in the wee hours of the morning the day of my party
with excruciating pain.
I ended up in the hospital.
I’m doing better now, after a couple of days in the hospital getting test after test after test.
Diagnosed with an intestinal blockage, I’m recovering slowly.
I may need exploratory surgery if things don’t completely resolve on their own. Hope not.
But for now, I’m okay.
Except I’m completely, totally, thoroughly bummed
that I missed my own book celebration party.
My first thought was I didn’t deserve a celebration, anyway.
My second thought, too.
That’s my mother’s voice in my head talking. It’s nearly impossible to shut her up.
My next thought was The universe hates me.
The universe isn’t out to get me. That’s just silly.
I am just an insignificant speck in the scheme of things.
The Universe doesn’t care a whit about me.
So, here I am feeling pretty sorry for myself.
How lame is that?
What I should really be feeling is grateful.
Grateful to have people in my life who wanted to celebrate with me.
Grateful to be alive.
And I am.
I am grateful to be here, for however much more time I am granted.
Guess, I am just going to have to do something else worth celebrating.
Maybe write another book?
Or another half-dozen books?
I better get started, huh?
Wish me luck!