Hang in there
Take care of yourself
For what? There will be no day when my son is here and it will be all right. Why don't people understand that this just simply doesn't "get better?" Yes, there are hours and days where I can effectively cope with my life with the missing piece. And yes, there are times when, God help me, I actually forget. But those times aren't necessarily *good* because they are followed by the inevitable crash of reality. The feeling of what should be...how much sweeter those happy moments would have been with our Alex with us...how incomplete the moments are even when we have enjoyed them.
I do have *good* times. But it seems the longer the *good* times stretch out, the stronger is the force of impact with reality. One good hour isn't so bad. One good day usually leaves me sobbing somewhere...no telling when or where. I could be at work, in my car, at the grocery store, or home (my preferred place) when the real feelings of loss hit me hard.
So what do I do to handle it? Nothing. I hide. In that way, and too many others to mention, I am a coward. I want to be alone and I want to be left alone (apologies to Garbo). Actually, I want people to ask about me, but not expect anything from me. To borrow a phrase from someone I know, "I don't wanna." It's not as if hiding gets me anywhere...and I know this. But it feels like I need to do things in my time, in my own way.
Today I was transferring the last of the digital pictures from the old computer to the new one (soon to be burned onto CDs) and I stumbled across all those Alex-related pictures...my positive pregnancy test, my pregnant belly, us painting Alex's room. Those pictures literally take my breath away. I have to sit down and remember to breathe when I see them. Even when I deliberately look at them, they have the same physical effect on me. I think it's because there really is very little to acknowledge that Alex truly existed. I have my fading memories and a few physical remembrances here and there...but not much else.
I look at my body and see the remains of a second pregnancy (the belly...the stretch marks)...but it all seems so unreal...as though it happened a lifetime ago...as though it actually happened to someone else. I guess that's supposed to be a good day? To feel disconnected enough to function? To remember and forget at the same time?
Someone told me I shouldn't feel guilty for having good days. And truth be told, I don't feel guilty. I feel afraid. I'm afraid of the good days because they are counterbalanced with the real days...the ones that are ALWAYS going to be there...the days without our Alex.