(Originally posted February 20, 2009)

In honor of my first day back at work today, I'd like to give you some suggestions on how not to interact with me. Please do not use any of the following phrases...

Boy, you've had a bad week--No, I haven't. My week has been long, annoying, frustrating and tiring. But J.J. could have died on that stairway in front of his kids, and he didn't. His impairments could have been much more severe, and they aren't. He could have a much more dismal prognosis, but he doesn't. I have not had a bad week.

You may have to redefine normal for a while--the next person to say this to me is going to need to redefine my fist in their face. I know exactly what normal is. If it has to be redefined, it's not normal. If I decide to call my cat a dog, it doesn't make him one. Words have specific meanings, and I am not now nor will I ever be Merriam or Webster, so I can't change them.

How's Jim--I know this one's an honest mistake. But my husband is J.J., or James. Or a few other names I have for him that I won't get into. But none of them is Jim.

Are you eating--unless you carried me inside your body for nine months, you need to stop hassling me about food (yes, Mom, that means you get to be the exception to this rule). I feel like I'm going to puke about 99 percent of the time. I'm aware that I need to force myself to eat and am doing so on a regular basis, even if it's not as much or as often as I did last week. These bones have plenty of meat on them anyway. I'm not going to starve today, or tomorrow either.

See above, but substitute sleep--I'm only sleeping when I drop from exhaustion. Sleep is not one of my better things anyway; I've been an insomniac since my teenage years at least. I'm working on it but short of conking myself over the head with a rubber mallet, I'm not sure what else I can do.

And the worst one of all--saying nothing. Don't think I'm going to fall apart on you. But my life changed irrevocaably 108 hours ago, and failing to acknowledge this makes me feel like you don't care. Tell me you're sorry and that we're in your thoughts and prayers. Let me know you'll listen when I'm ready to talk. Don't be afraid to joke with me or around me. And for the very last time--STOP TREATING ME LIKE I'M SPECIAL. If you were in my shoes, you'd be doing exactly the same things I'm doing.

Now I'm tired of typing this out on my phone, so that's all for now. Hope this helps!