Glitter in My Eyes
Categories: Living with Brain Injury
By Angela Leigh Tucker
Most folks have heard of the term FOMO: Fear of Missing Out. Many brain injury survivors I have met are haunted by this phobia. For me, FOMO is more pronounced when I see colleagues celebrate baby showers or professional accomplishments on Instagram. I sometimes feel sorry for myself and think, “That could have been me…”
On the other side of that very same coin, is an experience I call JOMO: Joy of Missing Out.
JOMO unexpectedly happened to me in a most unusual setting, while celebrating my best friend Neysa’s 45th birthday. Her parties usually include a costume component. For example, her wedding party was invited to dress as pirates for her rehearsal dinner. This time the evite I received was “Lance in Tight Pants” and her theme was “Neysa’s Turning 45, Let’s Jive!”
I woke at 5 a.m. and boarded a two-hour Allegiant flight south to Orlando for the celebration. One of the biggest challenges of brain injury I have learned to live with is neurofatigue, which is mental fatigue that decreases my concentration, focus, and memory. It is a debilitating exhaustion that can put me in danger if I am not careful. I nap daily, so when I reached Orlando, I thought I could nap off the exhaustion that was already mounting from the early morning travel. I was careful to not drink caffeine until an hour before folks arrived.
Guests started arriving for the house party at 8 p.m., and a massive pile of Amazon bags filled with an assortment of tight pants and metallic shirts awaited many of them. My friend Jada gave me a Farrah Fawcett inspired blowout and generously added glitter and rhinestones to several pairs of eyes, including my own. We had so much fun, four ladies piled in front of a large mirror in Neysa’s master bathroom. There was a disastrous moment involving black liquid eyeliner, but Neysa quickly and calmly resolved the situation.
A party light cast multicolored light showers across the living room wall and mini disco balls dangled from several light switches. The volume grew as guests continued to arrive, so I occasionally stepped aside into the empty dining room to decompress from the overwhelming multiple conversations and laughter that poured out of the kitchen. Everyone around me seemed to enjoy the wide array of spirits and wine, while I poured myself lime Spindrift sparkling water in a glass of ice with a disco ball straw to appear like I was drinking with everyone else.
There was a reserved table waiting for her party in the Disco Room of The Robinson Cafe, a 19th century historical building commissioned for Norman Robinson in 1889. As the clock struck 10:30 p.m., Lance began to coordinate Ubers to downtown Orlando and encouraged the crowd to gather just outside their front door. What is especially ironic about this specific party destination is that I resided in Orlando as a college student, and I cannot recall ever leaving for a night of dancing before 10 p.m.
That was more than 20 years ago, and these days, I often climb into bed closer to 9 p.m.
Then JOMO happened. Quickly and quite naturally. I called my husband and texted him a picture to show him my fabulous eye makeup. That is when I noticed my eyes in the photo, and just how tired they revealed I already was. But the dress! The hair! And my makeup all looked so good! It did not take long to weigh the heavy decision in both hands: should I go, or should I stay?
There was a deep sense of understanding and approval in his eyes. There was no pressure, no guilt, no hard feelings. Nothing but JOMO.
“Alright, the doors will lock on their own. Help yourself to anything you’d like,” he said as he headed out into the night. When the door closed behind him, I was enveloped in the most wonderful sound. One of my favorite sounds on the planet, really. Silence.
I stood in the hall, allowing myself to be cradled by silence for a few moments longer before returning to the kitchen, where it looked like folks had partied hard. With an enormous smile on my face, I went upstairs, changed into my PJs, carefully washed the glitter and rhinestones from my eyes, and rolled up my sleeves.
Next, I made the master bed that was still covered by tangled sheets from Lance’s disco nap. I let their family dog out in the backyard to do her thing. I tossed the cups and paper plates into the trash, then moved the crackers and pita chips into Ziploc bags. I wrapped a few appetizers, leaving some on the countertops. I discovered some crazy delicious raspberry scones covered in powdered sugar. Ate two. Poured myself my first glass of red wine from a bottle I assumed was nice because I watched Lance carefully tuck it behind several other bottles of wine on the bar.
I was living the dream.
I kicked up my feet in Lance’s recliner, where their sweet Cavapoo, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, jumped onto my lap. Lance sent a text to check on me, and I responded that I was so good, watching a tied football game between Alabama and LSU. Ruthie and I relaxed like this until I finished my glass of wine, then we both headed upstairs. I must have fallen asleep quickly and barely roused when the storm returned a few hours later. I looked forward to seeing everyone’s photos and videos that captured the disco party shenanigans that I joyfully missed out on.
This article originally appeared in Volume 17, Issue 2 of THE Challenge! published in 2023.