The End

I cannot live in this space forever.  I have to find a way to put the fear and the anger and the grey cloud back in the box at the back of my brain, the one so rudely wrenched open Monday night by another fool with a gun.

I found myself telling the story of That Day to two acquaintances at the gym today.  I can't remember the last time that happened.  We were all outraged.

It was strangely comforting to share; I forgot what it was like to be at the center of Tucson Love.  I've been traveling under the radar, ever since Little Cuter told me that she was doing the same.  It's harder for me now that I have a distinguishing physical characteristic (aka my limp), but unless I'm pressed for details I talk about a seriously unfortunate incident and leave it at that.

As my heart is mending, once again, my body is improving.  Structural Integration has reconfigured my body's relationship to gravity (at least that's what she says is happening).   TBG compliments my posture on a daily basis, and he's my fiercest critic.  He wants to see me scurrying; he loves every step I take on the road to a fluid gait.

So do I.

I've been looking outward all week.  My least favorite memories are brought front and center with every mention of the murderer in Las Vegas.  He deserves no air time. The Arizona Daily Star understands this; MSNBC does not.  I'm really disappointed in them, too.  I told Brian Williams that he shouldn't glorify the shooter just as TBG noted that he never used the kid's name.  Tell the stories of the doctors who had to walk past the dying to save those they could.  Talk about the first responders, those in uniform and the ad hoc volunteers, the ones who ran back into the fray.  I want to feel good about Americans; I don't want to focus on one evil man. 

I'm so angry about the media's priorities and I'm so sad about the stories of the dead and hearing about the heroes takes me right back to Nurse Nancy's hand on my bleeding thigh as she stared at my chest wound, telling me to worry about one problem at a time.  That, too, is strangely comforting.

And those are all really good thoughts, thoughts I am happy to welcome into my life once again, thoughts for which I will gladly make room in my brain.  I'm squishing the real-but-let's-not-dwell-on-them thoughts back into their corner..... as the migraine I'm breathing through will attest.

It's hard work to rearrange my personal space, but it's impossible for me to allow this killer to do it for me.  That is giving him more power than he has earned.