In twelve hours time I will be in Boston preparing to send my world into the hands of perfect strangers. Into the word GOD and all it holds. Strangers who will open her small body and change her and send her back down a hall to me, different.
This will be her fourth surgery in as many years.
It will be the seventh time a stranger decides just how asleep is enough asleep and not too much asleep.
I’m not used to it. It doesn’t get easier. It gets harder. It wears the knees to brittle bone. It twists the hairs from the head. Turns the belly to an acid backwards waterslide whirlpool that splashes up against molars. It fills any quiet space with nightmare noise. And you have to go there. To live it out. To watch it play on repeat.
The horrors of a broken heart.
I’ve seen them. I’ve heard them. I’ve left rooms smelling like them.
When my beautiful boy was born, I learned that you can love one person so much that you never need another single soul. When my feisty and fiery daughter was born I learned that you can love one person so much that nothing short of a village will suffice to keep you.
This journey has been stitched together by my village. A village made of people I have known from birth and perfect strangers who stepped into my life when I (didn’t know) I needed them desperately. My tribe has followed us, supported us, and loved us all the way – to right now- right here – about to board that plane and get this girl her very own fingers.
I love you all and I ask that you continue to stand with me, hold space, press your palms together and see us through yet another surgery.
We will begin opening cards on the plane and I can already feel the magic oozing out of the envelopes (and packages!). And, no, it is not to late to send Poppy a card in the mail! This will be a long recovery followed by another cross country trip for another surgery and long recovery. We are in the thick of it now. Here we go.
We’re Boston bound, baby!
Poppy Avalon Myers
PO Box 67001
Portland, OR 97268
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