Well the time has come. the house sale is finalized and escrow closed as of Friday, the workers (my knight in shining armor) are there making improvements and, as boss calls it, adding “Bittiesness” to it, and the movers are at our house today packing up all our things.
The time has come to pack up Amelita’s room. The girls came over last week, brought me lunch and we sat in her room, slowly going through each item. Bawling sobbing tearing sniffling (then eating, drinking and desserting, bc that’s what I do—my coping mechanisms can’t be running long distances and drinking smoothies, nah, nothing healthy like that of course), we put away in little bins the worldly items that remain of my little girl.
To think, an entire life in a few bins. It’s so pathetic how dearly we cling to physical things, but yet so fitting for our fragile hearts.
The only items that are “easy” to dispose of are those correlated to bad memories. I have no problem throwing hospital notes and charts and medical equipment and shirts made to access her port ALL AWAY.
but what about her socks? Her darling little feet wearing these tiny little Cinderella-like socks, how do I keep all those (I can’t) and yet, how do I part with them? (I can’t). It reminds me of funerals—how do you sum up the entirety of a person in one 20min eulogy? In one 30min slideshow? You simply can’t.
Thats what packing her room feels like. It feels so heartbreaking. so tragic. so embarrassing that I attach her memory to a fleece blanket, when the memory doesn’t really live there—it all lives in my mind, regardless of the blanket’s existence. But these items SUMMON the memories! They retrieve them from the vault of Amelie memories that’s locked away behind doors of my mind that I can’t access often (or at all). And so to pack those all away just seems....sad. Proper words escape me.
and it furthers reminds me how short her life was. 6 short years. She was just a baby really. her things evidence her childlike innocence—peppa pig, tinker bell, her little kitchen, her wooden doll house, her Disney castle, all her “thing-a-ma-bobs” they only little girls love.
And yet here I am, neatly folding the few items Amelie lived with and loved on into a plastic bin, relentlessly reminding me her body is gone.
As I write this, I’m staring outside and across my path of vision I see an elderly woman being pushed in a wheelchair. We live around the corner from a memory center, and there are often Alzheimer’s and Dementia patients who take strolls through our neighborhood because there are so many trees. I wave at her and I know she can see me, but she can’t really move her body. Her body is disintegrated and her existence now relies solely on the help of others. I can’t help but cry. Thank you Jesus! that my daughter doesnt have a life in a wheelchair. Thank you Jesus she’s flying above us freer than any notion of freedom we could ever imagine, more joyful than any idea of joy we could ever even dream of, and more real than any idea or concept of reality that my limited brain can even fathom. So I’m going to keep looking at this bed, this bed she needed only when she became a quadriplegic, and be grateful as hell that I have to pack that up and give it away, even if that means also packing her beautiful little socks and thing-a-ma-bobs.