The throwing away is in earnest these days. The garbage bags are hauled to the top of the dock on Brian's shoulders. Old clothes, rain boots, books galore, copies of bills paid, documents kept just in case but now no longer needed, extra supplies of shaving cream & oatmeal & the ear syringe & cotton balls.
We went through agony when we asked the guy down the dock if he'd take care of FloCat and he was forced to refuse.
"I'm getting too old. My son's making me stay with him most of the time now. I can't do it."
Catching a group of the dock's residents together, Brian told them our dilemma and was assured that FloCat would be fed & de-flea'd & find shelter from the cold.
"She's such a little slut" one of the Fishermen commented. "She'll be OK. We'll watch out for her."
We phoned the TV people and the telephone people and argued with them about termination of service.
"You don't understand! We're leaving the country! No! We do not want a different package."
We have to decide what is important enough to get into the one large suitcase and the one small suitcase each of us are planning on taking.
"Check the website!" Brian instructed Shelley. "Find out how many pieces of luggage we can take, the maximum size and weight."
"What do you mean it has to be under 70 pounds?"
Shelley resists simply repeating the same thing over again. Instead she takes him by the hand and leads him to the computer and sits him down to read the information himself.
"What do they mean it has to be under 70 pounds?"
Shelley moans, "I'm crabby! We need to go for a walk!"
Going through the mounds of paper that need to be thrown out, we come up with an old e-mail address of a friend we haven't heard from for awhile. Shelley drops him a line and 2 days later, 9 o'clock in the morning, unannounced, there here is.
"Well hello to you too, stranger!"
We spend a pleasant couple of hours drinking coffee, catching up and telling each other our tales.
There's waking up at 3:00 AM in a panic about the kids. We can't possibly be contemplating leaving them. How will they cope?
There's looking out the wheelhouse window in the evening at the lights on the Burrard Street bridge and knowing you'll never see that site again and mourning it before it's even gone.
And there's the blind, all consuming panic when we think that in Ecuador, no where in the entire country, perhaps no where in the entire Continent do they sell Nicorettes.