By Mary Koch

There are times I'd like to throttle the Pollyanna in me: That chirpy little inner voice that has memorized every optimistic, light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel, turn-lemons- into-lemonade, there's-always-a-bright-side cliche she's ever heard.

Sometimes I want to yell, "SHADDUP! Let me wallow in self-pity."

The Christmas card season is one of those times. I'm still sending out Christmas cards, which have evolved into New Year's cards and soon will morph into Valentines.

As I make my way through our address book (I'm almost to the G's by now), I reread each of the cards and letters that we received and which I so methodically alphabetized. Maybe if I spent a little less time on the in-coming, I'd be more timely with the out-going.

It seems as if we received a higher percentage of cards from family and friends celebrating Christmas in Hawaii than ever before. One couple, former newspaper colleagues, sent a card with a traditional, snowy scene while writing how they were enjoying the warm, sunny beaches of Maui.

* * *

THERE'S NOTHING like a little envy to get Pollyanna started. I'm wistfully recalling memories of our short visit to Hawaii 20 or more years ago, when she pipes up.

"Sure, it's beautiful. And you've been there. That's enough. You wouldn't want to spend Christmas there. It just wouldn't seem like Christmas!"

Other cards and letters describe exotic places visited and cruises taken by friends during 2002. Pollyanna takes a negative tack.

"Who'd want to travel these days, anyway? Flying is such a hassle, and those cruises! You want to catch one of those mysterious viruses? You're better off right at home."

I know she's right. But every once in a while, I look at what our friends are doing, the places they're going, and I take a little trip of my own down the "if only" road. If only my husband hadn't had a stroke, we'd be living a normal life too.

Pollyanna snorts. "What do you call a 'normal' life?" she taunts. "What's the norm for people in this world? Does everyone get to travel and take luxurious cruises? Or is it more normal for people in, say Africa, to be mired in hunger and disease?"

Besides being tiresomely chirpy, Pollyanna can be obnoxiously pious at times.

* * *

BUT SHE'S NOT done yet.

"Tell the truth," she hisses. "Would you rather be flying off to Paris or Greece, or would you rather be right here at home, caring for your husband?"

I mumble. We've been through this conversation many times in the past.

"I can't hear you," she prompts.

So I say it from the heart. I'd rather be right here, caring for John because I know we're the lucky ones. I'm lucky, not because I have to take care of my husband, but because I am able to. He's lucky, not because life is so difficult for him, but because he has a life.

Later, on my way to the post office to mail my daily dribble of Christmas cards, I meet a woman I haven't seen for some time. A few years ago, we both belonged to a caregiver support group.