Today is six months since A died. Tomorrow-- since he was born. The fact that there are two dates, and that they come in this weird, crazy, unnatural order still does something to me. Something strange, like trying to breath, but realizing there isn't enough oxygen in the room, but only for you-- everyone else seems fine, and turning around to take the scene in, and starting to go dizzy and to fall due to that lack of oxygen thing, and getting a very strange, swirling picture of that room, of everyone's faces as you go out.
I am reorganizing Monkey's toys today. I really started last night, but it's not a small job, so I am still at it. Monkey is out of town-- at a rental house near the water with JD's parents. Next week it's my parents' turn. I have a lot to get done, but somehow the one that I decided to tackle first is the toy project.
I had friends over for lunch. Friends that work nearby. There's four of them, and it's one of the best things about not working now-- I get to invite them to my house for lunch. If they remembered the date, they didn't say anything, but neither did I. It was good to see them, even if I felt a little removed. Only a little, though-- remarkably, there were moments when I was right there in the moment with them, telling stories, listening, laughing.
Today is also three years since friends of ours' twins were born by emergency c-section, one alive and one not. I need to call her.
I miss my son. I am getting better at looking at other people's babies. I was even able to look at Rachel's baby yesterday, although I chose not to speak to them. So I can look, and I may even be able to smile at the baby.
But oh, how I miss my son. How I long to hold him, feel his warmth, make him laugh. Feel him do anything, actually. Maybe the most heartbreaking thing to me after he was born was feeling no muscle tone, nothing. To see how big and strong he was, to still remember so vividly the big dance party he had in my belly the night before he died, and to feel no response from his limbs, from him to my touch. I knew he was gone. I still know it. And I still miss him. This physicality of grief is not as frequent a guest with me now as it was in the early days, but it's still here. And today it is here in a vivid, visceral way.