Yesterday, I decided impulsively to go to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox play the Angels. Before I entered Fenway Park, I decided to stop off at the Children's Hospital. Most of the 90 minute drive into Boston, I contemplated how I would feel stepping into the place that took such good care of Zoë. Would I cry at the sites and sounds? Would I want to retreat in fear of embarrassing myself?
Honestly, it wasn't as bad as I anticipated. It felt good to return to Children's Hospital. Reaffirming, even. When I first walked into the lobby, I noticed the crazy engineering project with the balls and gears and levers. I stood in the middle of it all watching how the contraption keeps moving everything along as it did months ago when I first discovered it with Zoë.
I thought I might l loose my cool and start crying over the loss of my daughter again, but really, I kind of felt like she was there with me, watching the cool machine move the balls around and around, like we did for many hours before, bemused by its puzzle, expecting a ball to miss its cue and fall of its trajectory.
Then I decided to have some Thai Coconut Curry soup from Au Bon Pain, like I used to. I sat in the lobby next to a few Dr. Seuss paintings that were part of an exhibit while Zoë was a patient. I ate my food quietly and listened to the sounds of the little balls banging and bouncing around their obstacles and the noises from children and mainly adults playing on the musical stairs.
I was unassuming. Not at all standing out like some of the children there being pushed around in wheelchairs by their parents. All I could think about were those children and the battle they were fighting. How easy it is for anyone of us to complain about something stupid and unimportant, when some people actually have the right to complain, but choose not to, seeing how useless it is.
Of course, if you have been following my blog, I mentioned months ago, that I played Miss Pac Man and broke the record for the highest score. I wanted to place the letters ZFY in the first place slot, but it would not allow me to. Before I left the hospital to walk over to Fenway Park, I checked to see if that score still stood. Someone really killed my high score, nearly doubling what I spent hours to achieve. Records are meant to be broken. Zoë's letters are permanent in my heart and purpose in life. I hope another child can live knowing that that high score was achieved for them.