Its a cold, rainy...finally feeling a lot like fall...day.
Tim is working late and I am sitting here trying to do the same.
Only this time, my work is way harder than his (even if the market did hit rock bottom today).
I'm sitting here trying to type up a letter to be attached to Will's blankets.
A letter that tells why and how these blankets came to be.
And I have no words.
That night we were with him, the hospital gave us so many things.
A lot of those things, came with letters.
I'll be honest. Many of those letters went directly in the trash.
And now I feel terrible about it.
Why? Because those letters were from parents who wanted to reach out to me. And in my frustration and extreme sorrow, I just couldn't handle any more sad stories.
Hell, I couldn't even handle my own.
So that night, I took my anger out on the one thing I could~by throwing those letters out.
I didn't want to hear about any more babies dying.
Because in my idea of a perfect world, that should never be allowed to happen.
And I'd had enough.
And now, just like so many people have said, I feel differently.
A sign that my grief is changing?
Or maybe, this is how I am dealing with my own loss, by trying to reach out to others in need.
Even if they are like me, and don't want it.
It could go a number of ways: writing the letter could be a small step of healing for me. Reading the letter could help someone else...Throwing away the letter could help someone else.
Either way I don't care what they do with it.
I just want peace of mind that I did it.
That I attempted to tell people why they are now holding these blankets.
But as I sit in front of this computer, I have turned dumb.
Because I don't know how to or even know what I actually want to say.
Or what would even matter.
Because I know the truth, nothing I write can even touch that pain. And it is devastating to even think of another couple going through it. And it seems so inadequate a gesture.
I guess what I would want to hear...is that someone out there was thinking of us.
In my darkest hour, seeing compassion from a complete stranger...who now is no longer a stranger because we share the most heart-wrenching bond.
God will take that letter to who needs it.
I just have to write it...
like those who wrote one for me.
And I have found some, tucked away in Will's memory box. How they got there is a mystery. Why was this one saved and the other thrown away?
So many questions and too few answers. This seems to be the constant in our life.
But we are getting better at living without those answers.
We have to.
Survival instinct is a strange thing. Because even when you don't want to carry on...or can't seem to...it takes over.
As much as things have been so hard, and continue to be, there have been more bright spots lately. Driving home the other night from Indiana (Tim's mom hosted a Tastefully Simple party for me) I realized that for the first time in who knows how long ~ I was content.
Not jumping for joy or giddy with excitement...just content for a moment. Not wanting anything else. Of course, I still want Will here. But for a moment I accepted what has happened...and didn't wrack my brain the whole way home just wondering why.
And I found hope in having that feeling. Because even if it was for only a moment, I remembered what it felt like. And I have to keep believing that things will get better...
even if it is only moment by moment.