Tomorrow we meet with docs to see if Abe can be listed for a heart transplant. If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be spending my spring researching organ transplant hospitals and possible schools in each area, I’d tell you to get lost. I’m no closer to housing options in any location. Stanford is prohibitively expensive, Houston is full of black mold (and don’t try to convince me otherwise) and every available rental house in Ann Arbor has six small bedrooms and a kitchen that looks like a meth lab. Nothing is 9000 and therefor, nothing is ideal. But I’m putting the cart before the horse, as per usual. First we have to meet with another Dr. Lee tomorrow and staple Abe’s undies to the table so he lays still for his echocardiogram and then we will talk. Talk and ask questions and continue our information gathering. Continue this quest to get our boy a heart as quickly as possible and in a way that sucks the least for all of us. Until then life grinds on, as it always does. There are kids thumbing their noses at the dinners I make and Abe practicing his name on Dan’s gorgeous cedar brackets outside and I’m still positive my last words will be, “Maggie, take a bite.” Sometimes I’m stunned that it all doesn’t just grind to a halt when I think of the precipice we are balancing on. Driving Lulu to an appointment yesterday led to a discussion on how organ donation works and included words like harvesting and coolers. There was a lesson about the difference between brain dead and actually dead which was vague at best since I’m cloudy on the difference myself. But the part that was crystal clear to her was the someone-has-to-die-for-abe-to-get-a-heart part. It pulled her sweet mouth into a perfect O as it sunk in and my eyes filled to think about it. Peter for his part, doesn’t care about any details other than the possibility of temporarily paralyzed vocal chords post-op. If he could, he’d skip the transplant and possible moving part and just jump right to the part where Abe can’t talk. Especially now when Abe has spent the last few days becoming progressively more dysregulated at the looming appointment and has defaulted into asinine question mode. Questions including, but not limited to: what is it called when you wake up and eat? (breakfast) am I going to miss school? (for the millionth time, yes) is dog food made of dogs? (no, it’s made of kids who asked too many questions).
So we soldier on, knowing that we hold nothing to the pain and indecision that millions of other people face. No one has died, we aren’t Syrian, we have plenty of food. Yes, the dogs tear up my packages, but I as long as they don’t eat the packing slip, I can always find the contents in the yard. This is a first world problem. Every single problem I have is a luxury for most of the world. And so, while I’m definitely not killing it, I’m not doing too shabbily either, all things considered. As long as the teachers are willing to overlook that no one is bringing snow pants anymore because they are washed and stored and this cannot be reversed until next winter (CANNOT) we are good. And if I’ve defaulted to basically forcing all the kids to get hot lunch so I don’t have to build sandwiches, well, that probably won’t kill anyone. ‘Cept the mini chicken corn dog nuggets. No one should be eating that crap. It’s like the turducken of hot lunches. Nope.
Happiest Almost Weekend y’all. We’re nearly there. It’s April 18 and the water truck will be here in two weeks and this time next week I’ll be laying me down to sleep in a yurt in KY, but tonight it’s snowing because Michigan done lost his mind, that bastard. And we’ve nearly made it. There is sun coming; I know this because I have refreshed my weather app like an addict. It’s coming. But first there will be this appointment for our boy and I know God will show up. Know it like I know there is oxygen enough for all of us in this house we never want to leave. Waiting to bear witness to it, because it’s gonna be good. And I’ll tell you all about it because
this is me being real.