In a few days it will be two months, and I feel alright.

I have been waiting to say that for what feels like a long, long time. I’m alright. I’ll be alright.

I will always miss my son with this near-constant dull ache, I think. I had to dig through the bag of stuff we’d displayed at his memorial and the sight of those onesies I had made for him brought tears to my eyes. I really, really had looked forward to sharing my life with him. There was, there remains so very much I had wanted for our lives…

I will be alright.

Each day brings a new set of challenges. I am about ready to resume my full schedule at the Day Job, and yet it remains a difficulty: though the dread of my work day has lifted, the tears linger. I am reminded, daily, of what I never had. Call it a hazard of working in a place where mothers and fathers and children are welcome, call it whatever you like, but every day it picks at the edges of that emotional scab I’ve formed until I have to excuse myself to the Ladies’ room for a few tears and kleenexes. Yes, it is rough and oh-so unfair, but it is my life now. I must deal.

I will be alright.

I will be alright because of the little things: my love for my husband, my music, my friends, and the kind acknowledgment from that lady I barely know. She came in to make copies and asked if she had heard right, that I had a baby. And when I told her what happened, she took me in her arms and cried with me before asking me his name. She asked me his name. Do you have any idea how wonderful that was? She wanted to know. She wanted to hear about my son, Michael. He wasn’t just a figment of my mind, he wasn’t just a statistic, or a tragedy. In her eyes, he was real, as real a person to her as he was to my husband and I.

She was the first person to have asked, honestly, genuinely, and unflinchingly. She made that ugly, tough day alright, and slowly, I am coming to realize that I will be alright. The clouds and rain will clear off some day…

I am almost ready to put Michael’s box of remembrances away. Not yet, but soon. The pain is fading, and eventually I will be able to file my memories where they belong, where they aren’t ruling my every breath. Eventually.

And that’s alright.

10 thoughts on “Becoming Alright

  1. Yes that is alright! You may put them away, but they are always there when you need them to be. Michael will always be in our hearts. Love you sweetie!

    1. Love you too, lady. 🙂

      I will never forget him, but it will be nice to get to the point where I am capable of putting down the weight of his loss. I am looking forward to that day, when I can remember him, and not feel the dark water rising around me. It’s coming, not yet, but soon. 🙂

  2. this one made me cry! Yes, YOU will be alright. “IT” will never be alright, but you will! Through the grace of God, and people like that wonderful lady who asked about MICHAEL! Not about you, but about HIM. That makes all the difference, somehow! I am right at 6 months since Benjamin Passed, and the days are easier all the time. There are times when I get blindsided, but it does get easier, Praise the Lord!

  3. Such honesty with your feelings. Not many can express them like you. I would say the lady who stopped by was one of those earth angels who show up just when one needs them..

  4. Yup. There is rest on the other side of the valley. The memory of the valley never goes away, but we somehow keep moving along.
    Keep it up! (That’s the smartest thing I have to say today 🙂 )

    1. Thank you. Each day is a little easier, though it is amazing how the littlest (or even the biggest) things can still set me off.

      I was selling some of our excess garden produce at the local farmer’s market yesterday, and a lady came by with a little boy around 1 year old or so… He had sandy, red-brown hair like my son and his name was Michael, too. It was SO HARD to not fall to pieces right then and there! Or like when I’m carrying a bunch of stuff to or from the car and I remember having the carseat in there, and how I imagined I’d cart it around. It’s so difficult, some days.

  5. That stuff is impossibly hard. We went to a departmental picnic a week or two after Doria died. Another couple had their baby right after her death. They brought their baby and set him on the picnic table right in front of us. I know that they just don’t think about people things in general, so I didn’t say anything, but you could feel the awkwardness throughout the picnic shelter. I carried on a nice polite conversation without losing my mind, but it was right on the border of impossible.

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