Street Fairs and Healing Scars

Over the weekend I took my nephew to a little fair in a church parking lot. It was the first time I had been out and doing anything besides laying or sitting down since the surgery. So I put on a loose pair of sweatpants (thus firmly assimilating to the Long Island lifestyle), my sandals and Dr. Seuss shirt and hobbled out for some fun.

Despite the availability of Ferris wheels, spinning tea cups, and other assorted child rides, the second my nephew saw the merry-go-round with child-sized Hummers, fire engines, and motorcycles, I knew what all my tickets would be spent on.

Fire engines...

...and hot rods.

It was while watching Anthony laugh and wave at complete strangers (he had a hard time remembering where we were as he spun around and around) that I finally realized that, for the most part, everything was over. The surgeries were complete, both of us were alive, and I could stop worrying about what Gerri would do if something were to happen to me and begin to live with the knowledge that the future was open again.