Mother's Day

I'm in Durham. And I wish I had brought my laptop. But here I am typing on my phone.
Tomorrow is the Rainbow of Heroes walk honoring past and present Duke Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant patients, and raising money for the Duke PBMT Family Support Program. It's always the first Saturday in May. So basically once every seven years it happens on Mother's Day weekend, like it is this year. And really, I can't think of a better way to spend Mother's Day weekend than honoring the son who isn't here to kiss my cheek and put his little arms around my neck.
I hate this. But I love him more. I have had the opportunity to say his name and hear his name spoken more times today than I have maybe in this entire year. What a gift.
It is entirely possible that I'll feel differently in the future, but the chance to talk about Eli and see people that knew him, even if only when he was sick, sounds like the sweetest Mother's Day gift available to me.

Driving into Durham, it truly felt like I was going to the hospital to see Eli. As if I could head to the fifth floor and there he would be, exactly as I left him, asking me to tuck his feet in and snuggle him. If only. It was completely surreal.
Being in Durham is complicated because I simultaneously feel a little at home- there's the chick-fil-a where my car broke down, there's the craft store where I bought yarn, there's the baseball stadium where we were going to go when Eli got better, and here is the complete lack of a Walmart or target within a close proximity to the hospital- and I also hate this place so much.
Tomorrow is the big day, the big walk. I haven't seen any of these people since last July. But they cared about Eli, and about me, and about our family. So I don't care how much I cry or even if jealousy attempts to rear its ugly head when I see the kids who are doing well. They were all my home away from home, my support system when I was so far from my community. They will always hold Eli precious in their hearts and I will always hold them precious in my heart. The doctors, nurses, support staff, BMT families, these are people I will never let go. We have witnessed the most terrible things and soared on the most promising of hopes. We are both better and more broken for knowing each other.