02 March 2011

I indulged myself and for an hour I read posts from last year. Tomorrow is the anniversary of David's transplant. I read the before and after posts and was plunged into those days. Whew, what we went through! We were so brave and daring. What adventure! In some way, I feel like we were mere children when we got that call. Was it just last year?

As I was reading, I had to let go of the crazy hope we had. And there is so much of it. Overflowing every post -- the certainty that David would get his heart and life would return to some normal. I believed like a newly baptized believer. I regret none of that -- I don't think I could have endured so much stress and worry any other way, but at the same time, I wish I could cup my own naive and believing heart in my hands and protect it from what was to come. to have such hope extinguished -- yes, I remember that as well.

I remember also that a year ago today, a young man was living the last evening of his life. He would die and his family would very lovingly donate his organs. The family's message to David, received by me last month, goes unanswered as of yet. Today was the first time I thought to answer. There was a heart in a young man, who lost everything even as he gave our family new hope. There is no way that I could thank them enough. But I can write. I do feel the pain of having to tell them of David's death. I know that they will be saddened by it.

That day, those days, of telling people that David died was so awful. Telling his father was the worst -- to hurt someone so much, some completely, and to have no way to help or make better. Such pain, such sorrow. I hated being the bearer of those tidings. If I could have held it to myself and let the world go on without pain, I would have done it.

So, these thoughts the day before the beginning of the anniversaries of this year, were bringing me to a sober point. Sad and weepy, but not despairing. I can wish for last year again, wish for 10 years ago again, but more of me understands that the time is past, that what is left of David is inside of me and the girls and those who loved him. But a bit weepy, knowing as I certainly do now that "we will not see the likes of him again." Smile. That quote -- an instruction in David's "in case of death" note. That on the day of his memorial, we should all say that to each other sometime that day.

And then, in the midst of weepy, Cheshire called with an errand for me. I had to find an old passport of hers and overnight it to her. The task which should not have been difficult was harder than needed to be because what she wanted was in David's purview. And I have not sorted and gone through all the files.

And suddenly, with that clean shot of light that occasionally appears, I knew my plans for the next school year. I have been debating what to do, what to "sign up" for. Another year of LEND with a big project, some volunteer work for ARC, looking for a job related to the disability community, or stripping myself of outside responsibility to drift a bit and set things to right. Looking in David's file draws that, much like mine, are only understood by he who set it up, gave me pause. I have so much to do to sort and clear the piles and boxes.

And that is my next task. There is the work that must be done. And so, I will turn again to those tasks. Full knowing I have written this before, and in truth, have done little pieces of it, but it must be the task coming next. I will clear. I will take days going through boxes and draws. I will linger over old writing, tear up over pictures and restaurant receipts, and I will try not to save more than I must. I will throw away everything I can to save Cheshire and Julia the task of throwing away on some future day. But I will save what is dear.

And I will take care of myself. It has finally dawned on me that I have forgotten how.

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