Mother's Day is just four days away. Last year it crashed into me while I was still in the deep, dark days of physical and mental recovery and it was here and gone almost before I knew it. It was just another hazy day of grief, heightened by the joy we should have been feeling, but were denied.
We spent the day celebrating our own mothers, My Beloved and I, and not thinking too much about the fact that I was one too. He bought me a beautiful card, and my sister-in-law sent me a very sweet e-mail a few days later, but everyone else very quietly let the day pass without a mention of my status as a Mother.
We all pretended I wasn't dying inside, I suppose.
No one knew what to do, and I didn't either. How do you celebrate that day when you child is dead? I still don't know. And it's going to arrive and torment me every single May until the day I die. An annual kick in the crotch.
Cards, commercials, ads, television shows - all reminding me of the little joys I should be enjoying, but never will. Thomas bringing me burned toast and warm juice in bed. Thomas proudly presenting me with handful of dandelions. Thomas giving me sloppy boy kisses and a card he made himself.
Never going to happen.
An angel in heaven is nice an all, but not as nice as those things. Not to me.
And so I hate Mother's Day. I hate it for re-opening a would I try so hard to keep closed. I hate it for making everyone around me uncomfortable. I hate it for making me think so hard about the little soul I'm missing. I hate it for reminding me that I'm broken and may never have another child. I hate it for reminding me that I will never fully heal.
I hate it for making me cry.