For almost two months, I have been, as some might say, laid up and feeling low.

The “laid up” part was due to an accident in which I turned my ankle, broke my foot and ended up in a giant boot, rolling around in a wheelchair.

“Feeling low” was an embarrassing condition some people call a “pity party.”

I don’t know why they call it that. It was more like a wake. It came and went, based on how much pain I felt or how much pity I was willing to wallow in.

Most days, it was only a little. Somedays it was a lot. And then I learned my younger brother had died unexpectedly.

All of us, if we live long enough, will know physical pain and emotional heartbreak, sometimes all at once.

If we’re lucky, we’ll get to take turns. We’ll have loved ones to lean on, family and friends who will surround us to keep us afloat as we walk on water, and who will trust us when their turn comes, as it surely will, to do the same for them.

My mother used to say life is a bank. Sometimes we put into it. Other times, we take out. Either way, it’s all the same bank and we’re all in it together.

I have a really big bank. My husband, my children, my grandchildren and others in my family. Friends who are as dear as any blood kin could be. I don’t know what I’d do, or who I’d be, without them.

Moreover, by some quirky grace of God, I have an army of angels that for lack of a better term, I call “reader friends.”

If you’re a newcomer to this column, let me say, as I learned, growing up in the South: “Welcome. Put your feet up. Make yourself at home.”

But for those of you who’ve hung with me, reading what I’ve written for 25 years, I want to hug your neck and say, “How’s your mama and them?”

In recent weeks, I’ve heard from hundreds (or thousands, maybe, I can’t keep track) of “reader friends” who have emailed or snail-mailed or posted messages on my website or Facebook page, offering condolences for my loss, and kind wishes for my healing.

Many of you shared stories of sufferings you’ve endured, loved ones you have lost, heartaches you’ve survived, challenges you have faced and overcome.

Some of you even sent gifts: A butterfly “faith” magnet to remind me to keep the faith. A fancy potholder that will come in handy if I ever remember how to turn on the stove. And my husband’s personal favorite: a “dammit doll” for when I feel the need to hit something.

Every card, every message, every kind word was a reminder to be thankful, a healing balm for body and soul. There is no better medicine than gratitude.

Years ago, as my first husband neared the end of a long and valiant battle with cancer, I came up with a plan to help us both: We would each keep a notebook, I said, recording five things each day for which we were thankful. And at the end of the day, we’d compare notes.

“What if I don’t do it?” he said.

“I’ll hide the remote control for the TV,” I said.

So he did it. Every day. As long he was able. My name often made his list, but he always put God first. He said God never threatened to hide the remote.

Many things helped in those last days: A lot of prayers, a lot of love, a lot of casseroles. But the daily practice of giving thanks was a miracle drug. Even as his body was dying, I watched gratitude heal his soul.

It was a lesson I swore I’d not forget. But, OK, I’ll just say this: Somedays I can’t remember where I left my glasses when they’re on top of my head.

Lucky for me, I have family, friends and “reader friends” who help me remember things far too important to forget.

Thank you.

As one “reader friend” so finely summed it up: “We’re all just walking each other home.”

Sharon Randall can be reached at P.O. Box 77394, Henderson NV 89077, or at her website: www.sharonrandall.com.