Eight months have passed since our baby died. I used to have this urge to say "since we lost our baby" or something similarly euphemistic. But it's a new year and I'm striving for honesty...even if it hurts. And it does hurt. Instead of waking with the exciting anticipation of spending the day with our bright and smiling boys who would both learn new things, I marked the beginning of this day by noting that it is sunny and we could go outside and play...just Sam and me. That prospect would have filled me with delight on any day before that day eight months ago. Now it brings a strange mixture of happiness and sadness...and makes me feel. I hate feeling. I'm tired of feeling. I just want to be for a while.
I don't want to be a traitor to the family that I have here with me...wishing they were more or somehow different. I want to be able to appreciate them as they are and fully enjoy my life with them. But the love and anticipation that have become horror and sadness always seem to stick their ugly noses in to remind me what is missing. My perfect family is now always slightly insufficient. It's just not fair.
I'm moving on...but I'm apparently taking a boatload of baggage with me. I thought I'd be able to put some of it in storage for a while as the months passed. You know, store away my summer grief during the winter months and vice versa? But nope...apparently I get to haul around a complete year's worth of nightmare. Eight months and counting.