Ream of Paper

When I saw the mail truck stop in front of our house today, I got all excited. It's not often we receive packages of any kind, much less certified mail. But when I read the return address my heart sank. It was from our lawyer. She had promised to send my file in case I wanted to pursue my lawsuit with another lawyer. I set the 4" thick package down on the kitchen table where it still sits. I can't bring myself to open it. I may never open it. I don't want to see my whole horrible experience reduced to a ream of 8.5 x 11 paper.

I realize this journey is my own. I can't expect a doctor, a lawyer or even a loved one to walk in my shoes and feel what I feel. But it sure is hard to see my journey reduced to a ream of paper. Stark white paper at that. Couldn't it at least have been colored paper? And am I somehow supposed to gain closure by seeing my journey compiled in such a nice, neat little package? There was nothing neat and tidy about what I went through. I spent months being sick. I counted 6 weeks just in the hospital alone by the time it was all added up. And even after it was all said and done I went through a horrible depression. So much more went through my mind than went through my body. So you can't quantify my experience in days, weeks, or even months. And you certainly can't boil my experience down to ream of paper. The scar from my belly has long since healed, but the scar that remains in my heart is still healing.