Manic Monday: Passing through memories, facing the future.

All the preparation in the world wont make me feel ready. All the emotional outbursts, the "I am going away if you won't do what I want", the echos in the empty room and the boxes and boxes of things to go through and give away cause feelings I need to hide.

Two days before Ty C and I leave.

What can I pack? No, not the new get well gift of floor puzzles. Clothes? Yes, the ones that are cut open in the back so he doesnt have to raise his arms to get into them. Velcroed on the back for easy access to a fresh wound. Not the heavier toys, the lighter ones that he can use to play laying down at first. Some of his favorite books, sure. But they wont distract while we are in pre-op. What can distract him from the anxiety of being in pre-op? Anyone have any ideas?

Three days before we sit in the pre-op room. All the thoughts of "will he walk again?" or "the scars on his back will heal and fade but how about the emotional scars of another surgery?" and the "how much more will the cold weather hurt this time?"...

We are working on the Pepsi grant for the playground. How easy it is to log on and select Butterfly Kisses...how easy to text that number in. It doesn't cost anything but a few moments. Yet all over the internet people are asking, demanding money for many things. Lives at stake, holidays made happier, lost homes found. Using every emotional ploy to get it. I have donated, I have supported yet I see few who have in turn supported this cause that costs them nothing. I asked for recipes, most people did not have time...I ask for a text, most people have no time.

My mother would have carried a message and worked hard to get that playground here. She was a staunch supporter of Ty C. I remember her holding him, teaching him to count. I remember her encouragement to adopt him, hold him close and take care of him. "Don't let him cry" she would say in a pleading voice. I stand in her room, still full of her things, the smell of her fading. Two years is a long time. Voices fade, smells fade. I call out to her and hear an echo of my own voice. But I see her. The photographs do not fade so fast. My own dreams do not fade so fast but linger in my mind.

All of her things, all of my Aunts things and all of the boxes we have to go through. One by one, selecting the few items that hold memories that are too painful to give a way. Offering then, then donating. Passing through memories. Facing the future.