Why the mailbox is dangerous

There's a whole lot about the donor world that I don't know. Obviously, there's no way to know about it unless you have been unfortunate enough to have a loved one die, but fortunate enough for that loved one to be young and healthy and die with organs intact--and for the death to be sudden but not so sudden that he cannot be rushed to the hospital and sustained on life support.

In my 6 months experience of being the mother of a donor, I know that there are two types of donations: organ and tissue/muscle/bone/etc. I get them mixed up. I get a newsletter every so often from one of them, with lots of information about grieving and what other families have gone through. And then, like last week, I got the wonderful gift of a recipient letter. (I've written back to him, BTW.)

But there's more: like the letter that came about an annual memorial to honor and remember the donors. There's one in March or maybe April up north in Hayward. Gearey expressed not being interested at all, definitely not wanting to become a part of some sort of movement. His grieving for Kyle is a very private thing. I'm sure to Gear it seems almost disrespectful to Kyle to meet up with a bunch of strangers. I don't know why, but I don't feel that way. I understand him completely, but I'm just different. Like on New Year's Day when I saw the Rose Parade float honoring organ donors and accompanied by recipients, I wanted Kyle's face on that balloon.

And then there was today. Another mail box surprise. I get a card addressed to Gearey but sent to my address. It's from the tissue & the eye bank people. It's a Save the Date card. For an annual donor remembrance. It says, "Invitation to follow."

Another event, I think. Should I bother to tell Gear?

And then I see the small calendar on the card.
There's a date circled with a red heart.
The event will be held on 13th of April.
Kyle will turn 23 on that day.

Except I'm supposed to say, "He would have been 23." We only count the years one actually completes, don't we. Yet I will have been his mother for 23 years on April 13th. His dying won't erase that. And he will be 23, except that he won't be here to party with us.

I wonder how many years I will be drawn to and fearful of the contents of the mailbox.

I just want my boy back.
I just want my boy back.
I just want my boy back.