October 12, 2017: Psychic

We began to settle into our new routine on October 12, 2017. I stayed with Matt while he was out of therapy and took the time, while he was in therapy, to catch up on all the real life things that needed doing. Bills and errands and the administrative minutiae that had fallen by the wayside over the last few weeks.

That afternoon, however, I left a few minutes before Matt’s therapy actually started. I had an appointment at home with a psychic-medium to cleanse our house of any bad vibrations or bad energy.

When I told friends I was planning on a spiritual cleanse of our house, I told them with a half smile on my face. A part of me thought I was being ridiculous. But also a part of me desperately wanted to believe. A part of me knew there would never be an explanation for all that had happened to Matt and our family. But also a part of me was desperate to find a reason. So, did I really believe we were being haunted by bad energy? Yes and no.

I told Matt where I was going and why and cracked a (bad) joke about reading too many YA fantasy series. He didn’t laugh, and I didn’t expect him to—it had been a long time since he’d laughed.

Instead of laughter, he looked at me and said: I’m sorry. My sense of humor is messed up.

Hope began to glue together all the pieces of my heart that had broken over the last twelve days. I told him it was okay. I said he was getting better. And I believed it. The fact that he could recognize that his sense of humor was warped—or that my jokes were terrible—was a victory.

The psychic-medium arrived. I told her my husband was sick and didn’t go into specifics. She struggled to guess his ailment and warned me that she doesn’t like to speak about medical issues. She walked into our home and didn’t feel any bad energy. Instead of a complete sage burn, which she said would leave a lingering odor that might bother G and H, she did a sage spritz and talked about Matt and our family and our future.

She told me three things. One, that someone in my family had recently bought a timeshare in Florida—news to me, but ultimately true. Two, Matt would be home from rehab by the end of next week—this also proved true. Three, everything would be okay.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs, looked me in the eye, and said: You know, I really think he’s going to be okay.

Tears filled my eyes. It was all I needed to hear. Whether I believed in magic and psychics and messages from a spirit realm, didn’t matter. I chose to believe. I chose to believe those specific words. I chose to treat those words like truth. I chose, because Matt had taken a micro-step forward that day and because I’d needed to find another glimmer of hope in the darkness—however impractical and nonsensical—another reason to believe in Matt and the poliovirus and our happily ever after.

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