Three Story Times Converge

One story: We are going to Pigeon Forge for a long weekend vacation. While there my sinuses explode into one of the winter wonderland congestion nightmares and we go to a Doc in a Box where I get almost no help, but am eventually offered a sinus prescription with the warning that it can upset patient's mental health. I take the prescription and am - maybe 4 doses in when - - - Another story: A dear friend of mine has a fancy embroidery machine and I had this idea to take signatures from MyJamie, from my parents, get them scanned and ask my friend if she can embroider their handwriting into something that can be turned into a Christmas ornament. I'm thinking canning rings and lids, she's thinking the little sewing hoops. She does a test and it seems like exactly what I'm thinking. Another story: Up in Pigeon Forge lives my life long friend Alicia and I tell my husband that I'm making plans during vacation to have lunch with Alicia. - I'm 4 doses in and we're just being seated and taking turns going to the restroom when I pick up my phone to check a text from Nita and the text is an image of the Christmas ornament with MyJamie's signature. His mark. Our choice to be scanned is from a card where my husband wrote Jamie's name and Jamie made his mark above it. The scan is appropriately of both his name and his mark. This is where the 3 stories collide. In a restaurant in Pigeon Forge on a Monday in January, Alicia returns to the table and I have completely broke down. I am full blown actively crying. I'm not teared up. I am actively crying. In a break down, from which I have to excuse myself and go to the bathroom and try to shake it off. Because the ornament idea? It was perfect. Except my parents are still dead. MyJamie is still dead. They're all dead. And it's just a Christmas ornament.