I've long been of two minds about summer--ever since Robert's collapse in 1998. That was July. I can't think about what should have been because that serves no purpose. I imagine that other people imagine I would think about that, but I don't. Every now and then a thought will drift around the edge of my consciousness, but the processing part of my brain snatches it and tosses it away. Without any intervention from my own active thought.
Summer ought to represent freedom: no jackets! Short sleeves! The sun on our faces as we lounge in the backyard/at the beach/on a mountain top. Relaxation, fewer obligations.
The inverse, though, is true at my house. When school lets out, the extra nursing hours provided so that Robert can attend school go away. We have to access in greater numbers other resources we relay on throughout the year. The question of what he can do and where he can go. Now that he has a trach, how we travel, if we travel, is up in the air--he needs overnight nursing.
When I envision the summer rolling out ahead of me, bright and shiny, I feel exhausted. Frightened. Can we even make it through another summer? Will we? The hours of each day are puzzle pieces, the days themselves fit together in unusual ways. Hold on, I tell myself, we're going into it, as though summer were a tunnel of darkness, at the other end, the cold steel light of autumn.