On Monday, I dropped Conor off for swim lessons, popped back to the house, put the trash cans out on the street, leashed up the dog, and tripped off the ever-so-slightly wonky stairs out the door into the garage.

My ankle twisted. It popped. Loudly. Unnervingly.

Down I went, cursing the whole way.

It’s a very vulnerable feeling, to be sitting (writhing?) on the garage floor, in a lot of pain and trying not to freak out. I called my dad, but he was at the River.

By some miracle, I had just texted with my cousin Aly who had planned to walk past my house on a mission for muffins at Groovy Duck Bakery. I called and she was close! Huzzah!

Here she came, running up my street to my rescue. She got the dog inside, grabbed me a beverage, and of we schlepped to Raleigh ortho.

Thankfully, Erin and Jim are still here, so they snagged Conor from the pool and took him to purchase the promised soccer cleats.

Dad had called Vicki, so she met us there. We made jokes with the receptionist. They were VERY unnerved when I said something to the effect of, “Actually, I find this all very funny. My husband’s funeral was yesterday.”

But look, it was a WILD 24 hours. We’d just spent the previous afternoon surrounded by 160 of our dearest friends and family. More than at our wedding! I somehow managed to give the little speech I’d planned to give and made it through playing one of P’s favorite songs.

Conor had fun with his friends and learning how to play blackjack at The Pour House.

Our friends came over for pizza and whiskey and magic.

It was wonderful and awful and fun and hard and I am really tired of all of these feelings existing all at the same time.

So I’m legit sorry that I was freaking out the people in the urgent care. But man. It’s just a lot.

I’ve felt pretty lonely during all of this, but sitting incapacitated on the floor of my garage, trying to figure out what the heck I would do if my ankle was actually broken (spoiler alert, it’s just a bad sprain) was an unpleasant experience.

My support system is awesome! They were right there and had it all handled.

But it still was just one more place that highlighted his absence. It just keeps going like that. Every day there is something else. Some days it’s big, like the fall. Or like today when I really could have used a “good cop, bad cop” tag-team parenting approach. And some days it’s tiny like having too much extra spaghetti.

Celebrating Preston’s life on Sunday was beautiful. Friends and family performed and drank and hugged and laughed and cried.

And the way my friends and family showed up on Monday to haul my butt to the urgent care was also beautiful.

The steps in my garage, however, are absolutely not beautiful and will be getting replaced POST HASTE.