Last night was the first night we put Uly to bed without a bandage of any kind covering his chest wound. Maybe we’ve quietly crossed over some vague delineation between wound and scar. It isn’t raw and bloody anymore; I don’t think we can accurately refer to it is a wound. But it’s a doozy of a scar.
I finally removed the last remaining medical supplies out of my office, which was serving as some kind of ad hoc nursing supply closet. When I ask the older children to clean in-progress art projects off of the table, it’s not because we need the surface for dressing changes and a nurse visit, but probably because we’re about to eat.
It’s back to normal around here. Ulysses was removed from the wound vac a month ago. Without that beeping albatross, we have been free to do as we please. Actually, I mean, we have been free to do the boring stuff people do without too much foresight or frustration.
But sometime back there, while we were extolling the merits of tegaderm and taking inventory of saline syringes, summer happened. Do you ever look at the google street view of your home address? The actual front view of my house hasn’t been updated since google first unleashed the feature, but our cross street picture is more recent. I can virtually click myself down my street and jump ahead in time by several years. The old pictures have a grainier resolution and washed-out color. The new pictures are of sharper quality, more vivid. The difference is a jarring surprise. There is evidence of the work (six years worth!) we’ve put into our little yard. We’ve transformed a dull city lot into a lush agrarian corner and, despite my orwellian mistrust of google, seeing the contrast so easily is both amusing and gratifying.
Summer feels similarly surprising to me this year. I know what we’ve been doing, but it feels like we got here in one quick click.
I am so sporadic with updating that I feel embarrassed every time I return. Like driving away from a party and realizing I forgot something and not wanting to turn back, for fear that the hosts have already gone to bed. Hi, it’s me. I’m so sorry! Hate to bother!
I might not ever stop feeling awkward but I do aim to get back into a more consistent rhythm here. I have so much to tell you! Maybe if I wrote more I wouldn’t want to listen to The Flaming Lips Do You Realize? on repeat in the car for several days in a row. Pretty sure my kids are permanently scarred for hearing their mother sing, “everyone you know someday will die” so many times in a row. (not really. they were singing along, too. it’s true, you know.)