Bad pictures, I’ve always believed, should be destroyed. No one likes them. No one benefits from them. Even the pictures of your favorite b-list celebrity sporting a new batch of cellulite should really…be destroyed. I mean I read them in the super market while standing in line but mostly just because I want to know that someone else’s cottage cheese is as bad as mine.
Still, my point stands. They are in no way edifying for anyone.
I believed that until I discovered this picture on our computer 2 weeks ago.
This was taken by my loving husband, Andrew, during my bout with Mono last year. It was around this time that I came home from rehearsal feeling very strange, almost as if someone had been vacuuming out my energy. I opened the front door and went straight to my bedroom, saying only, “I don’t feeeel so gooood….”
I was in my bed, exactly like that, for a month (no I’m serious). At which time I went to the doctor I had seen and demanded prednisone. I said to her, with tears running down my face, “I’m a musician. I don’t have sick days. I don’t get paid while I’m at home recovering. If I don’t work. I don’t have money. Period. So give me the good stuff or I’m not leaving the office.”
But that isn’t the point. Even though this picture is awful and I want to erase if from our hard drive…I never will. It means too much.
See this was the other end of the picture:
Andrew and I got engaged right before I got mono. He had never seen me sick or even under the weather. He drove down every day from work and sat with me until I fell asleep. He force fed water to me. He smelled my horrible rotten tonsil breath. He sat in a room with me watching Anne of Green Gables while I snored and snorted. He bought me bucket loads of cough drops. He spent the entire night with me in the hospital. He was there as I lost enormous amounts of weight and personality with it.
He never complained. He never asked questions. He just came.
So even though this has to be the worst picture…I love it. Because it showed me who he really was. The great depths to which he could really love.
Even though I knew I had made the right choice when I said, “Yes.” mono made me even more sure.
So here is a salute to bad pictures. I encourage you to share yours. It feels good.
In other news: I’ve been having apocalyptic dreams recently. Three in a row. Freaky. It makes waking up to normal life a lot nicer than usual.