Ever since my kids could talk they have asked, "Is magic real?"
I always say yes.
Because it is true.
This is how I know:
The week has been a blur. Between me teaching camp, running to Mayo and working on choreography for a summer show, Punk is also working as a counselor for two camps - theater and YMCA, Kooka is likewise working at theater camp and spending her nights at rehearsals for a summer production of Grease. Yoda has spent her first week as a day-camper and will be making her theatrical debut as a statue of Aphrodite - Greek Goddess of Beauty, as well as a short cameo in the River of Death.
Her summer reading log actually says "Methodist Hospital cafeteria menu - 15 minutes." Reading in the car makes her sick, and it was either the room service menu or a three year old copy of Reader's Digest. She went with the food.
Last night we got home around 12:30 am.
And poof - there was magically a fresh, homemade strawberry pie in my refrigerator. I did not put it there. My kids did not put it there. Nobody in our house made that pie. We weren't even in the house when it happened.
Today - I left for three hours and abracadabra - when I came back there was pasta, homemade sauce, french bread and parmesan on my counter - and it was still warm!
While I was with Rico for surgery on Tuesday, all three of my kids got home from camp in a torrential rainstorm without getting wet.
The dog's been fed. The computer's been fixed. My kid was asleep in her own bed when I came home. There is ice cream in my fridge. Our peanut butter keeps refilling like the hanukkah lamp. My kitchen is clean. There was a coupon for free pizza in my mailbox. Rico laughed.
It's just magic.
We can't see the love, but it's there, and it makes the impossible happen.
So yeah - magic is real. And we're so lucky to live around so many magical people.
Rico's feeling a little bit of magic today too. There's been some progress. Most of the IV's are out - so is the pain pump - so is the antibiotic drip. We're glad he's unhooked, it means he'll get to leave his unit.
That's all good.
But then the nurses start asking questions:
"Do you have parents living nearby."
"Anyone that can help you with 24-hour nursing care?"
"What exactly does that entail?"
"Well, lifting him out bed without allowing him to bend at the waist, rotating him every three hours, taking care of stitches, things like that."
"I can barely lift myself out of bed these days. I'm actually supposed to completely lift him up - not just sit him up or help carry him, but do it like I'm at a fifth grade sleep over - like 'light as a feather stiff as a board'? How is that even possible? It took five of us to do it the other day."
"Well you might need a helper."
"I have a five-year-old and a pomapoo with me at all times. I'm doubting their credentials. And as far as rotating - if we accidentally kick each other in our sleep does that count? Plus I don't even know what taking care of stitches means - like didn't somebody already take care of that? What more could be left to do? I'm slightly terrified that the job isn't quite finished - is that really a home-based project?"
Nurses - much like bees and dogs, can smell fear. In light of this, we decide that a short term care unit would be best for the time being. She asks how we would like to transport him. Again, this seems outside of my current skill set. He's only allowed a 40° flex at the waist - so even if I wanted to, the only way I could transport him is to roll down the passenger side window, tie a red flag to his foot and load him in through the back like a two by four from Home Depot. Given a choice between the two, we decide that an ambulance is the best course of action.
So tomorrow he will move - not sure exactly when - but at least we know how. And "poof" just like magic - there will be physical therapists, and hugs, and comfy blankets and all sorts of good things surrounding him. And hopefully the hallways will be a little shorter than Mayo's, so Yoda doesn't have to bring her own set of wheels to walk through them.