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Wednesday, February 04, 2009
This morning I was dreaming I was a Super Hero, but not the Super Woman kind. I was trapped. Forced to be a Super Hero by the government or some agency. They trapped us in a room, hanging in these weird little stretchy suits until the needed us. This morning we got a new guy. Oddly enough I think it was Dr. House from TV. But we hung there in a plain white room, and into the darkness we started. I remember feeling helpless and sad, sad that I would never be able to watch Aubrey grow up because I was forced to be a Super Hero. She woke me up with her morning chatter. And my first thought was Logan, again. When will that stop? When will I wake up in the morning to hear my beautiful daughter chatting up a storm in her room waiting for mommy and think how lucky I am? I used to. Every morning I woke up feeling like the luckiest person in the world. I miss those mornings.
Last night was rough. I had a complete break down…again. I find that I am avoiding things I need to do before my memory is too clouded, but I am so tired of being sad. I’m tired of reliving every excruciating moment of Logan’s short life and quiet death. But last night I went ahead and tried to fill out more info in his Pregnancy Memoir book. And there were questions that would make any pregnant woman smile and dream…but they were so hard to answer now. And I cried and cried and cried. And I kept on crying for hours into the night about not being able to grasp any of this. I can’t get my mind around why he was given to us to begin with, and that this has actually happen. My pregnancy seems like it never was, except I remember all too well. My son seems like a memory I created, but again, I remember it all too well. I remember his warmth, his tiny little mouth and ears. I remember those dinky feet and hands, so I know it was all real. And my heart and soul ache in an enormity that assures me it was all very real. And the quick glimpses of deep sorrow on David’s face remind me that it was all very real. But my head, my head refuses to believe that such a terrible thing could have happened to us. I just can’t grasp that we had a son and he died. I just can’t, and it’s eating me up. I can’t cope with those thoughts. I don’t know what to do with these thoughts. I don’t know what to do with these memories I have of a child that never lived in this world. So I guess I do feel trapped being a Super Hero.
My little muffin is sick. Guess I’ll be a Super Hero for her.
This morning I was dreaming I was a Super Hero, but not the Super Woman kind. I was trapped. Forced to be a Super Hero by the government or some agency. They trapped us in a room, hanging in these weird little stretchy suits until the needed us. This morning we got a new guy. Oddly enough I think it was Dr. House from TV. But we hung there in a plain white room, and into the darkness we started. I remember feeling helpless and sad, sad that I would never be able to watch Aubrey grow up because I was forced to be a Super Hero. She woke me up with her morning chatter. And my first thought was Logan, again. When will that stop? When will I wake up in the morning to hear my beautiful daughter chatting up a storm in her room waiting for mommy and think how lucky I am? I used to. Every morning I woke up feeling like the luckiest person in the world. I miss those mornings.
Last night was rough. I had a complete break down…again. I find that I am avoiding things I need to do before my memory is too clouded, but I am so tired of being sad. I’m tired of reliving every excruciating moment of Logan’s short life and quiet death. But last night I went ahead and tried to fill out more info in his Pregnancy Memoir book. And there were questions that would make any pregnant woman smile and dream…but they were so hard to answer now. And I cried and cried and cried. And I kept on crying for hours into the night about not being able to grasp any of this. I can’t get my mind around why he was given to us to begin with, and that this has actually happen. My pregnancy seems like it never was, except I remember all too well. My son seems like a memory I created, but again, I remember it all too well. I remember his warmth, his tiny little mouth and ears. I remember those dinky feet and hands, so I know it was all real. And my heart and soul ache in an enormity that assures me it was all very real. And the quick glimpses of deep sorrow on David’s face remind me that it was all very real. But my head, my head refuses to believe that such a terrible thing could have happened to us. I just can’t grasp that we had a son and he died. I just can’t, and it’s eating me up. I can’t cope with those thoughts. I don’t know what to do with these thoughts. I don’t know what to do with these memories I have of a child that never lived in this world. So I guess I do feel trapped being a Super Hero.
My little muffin is sick. Guess I’ll be a Super Hero for her.
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