Solitude and Isolation

Solitude is a weird thing. I never realized how isolated one could feel. But I feel so isolated since Logan’s birth/death. His “Angel Day” as I have read it being called. I guess it’s supposed to take the sting out when we say it? Maybe it’s because it sounds prettier than the event really is, and therefore we feel like it wasn’t so bad? Can you sugar coat the loss of your child? I think this is about as ugly as it gets. Why do we tip-toe around it? I don’t know. I’ve been trying not to immerse myself in the grief of other’s, but sadly that is where I find most of my comfort. I find comfort in knowing that I’m not alone, that other women have been neck deep in this stinking pit of despair, and eventually climbed out. It gives me hope that one day I’ll be able to look at the things that I intended to be Logan’s and not feel angry, sad, confused…or at the very least not cry. I’ll probably always have some degree of anger, I’m sure I’ll always be sad about it and I’m sure I will always be confused since I doubt God is planning on sending me an email any time soon on his reasons for taking my son back. Men just don’t grieve the way woman do. I wear it on my sleeve. Men, they don’t like to talk about it, they don’t like to be reminded, and dwell and ponder and ask why over and over and over again. And other than the “man” in my shoes here at home, who’ve I to talk to? Who’d even possibly begin to understand unless they’ve been here? I don’t really know anyone else. No one I could possibly feel comfortable talking to. And that, that makes me feel isolated. When people have a baby they talk endlessly about it, they share labor horror stories, they talk about the burps and farts of their tiny bundles. No one wants to hear about my story. People like to go through life not being reminded of the ugly things. I should know, I’m one of those people. So, I don’t talk about Logan the way I do Aubrey. I don’t tell the clerk at the store about his tiny little feet. I don’t tell the mother behind me in line about his tiny little lips. I keep all of those little tidbits to myself. I smile and act interested when they talk to me. But I’m not. I don’t want to hear about their perfect little pregnancies, their perfect little births and their perfect little babies. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy as a Lark for them. I’d glad that there are healthy babies being born every minute of every day. But, it just reminds me of what I don’t have. I don’t have my little baby boy.