A Simple Comment

One simple comment sparked a flame in my head today.

Today.  May 5.

I thought maybe today would be easier than the 5th day of past months.  But the heaviness - the deep ache - settled over me this morning.  Nothing in particular brought it on.  It just came.  It does that.

One simple comment today.

I told someone I was having a hard day today.

Her kind, simple comment:  'Everyone has days like that.'

This is what I've been telling myself today so that I won't throw tea glasses, vases, and beer bottles:

She was trying to be understanding.  Sympathetic.  She was trying to help me believe that I'm normal.  That I'm not crazy.  She was being kind.

But this was my instinctive response:

No.  Everyone doesn't have days like this.  My day has been hard because my daughter would have been 8 months old today.  My day has been hard because I let a song lyric make my sorrow feel cheesy and easily 'fixed'.  It's been hard because my little blond baby girl isn't riding in the van with me and her 4 older siblings.  It's been hard because I'm remembering the scary hours of that day, 8 months ago, that led to the decision to deliver her.  And it's been hard because delivering her led to the decision to stop the efforts to revive her, and that meant saying goodbye to her.  No.  Everyone doesn't have days like this.

I.  Miss.  Her.

I felt like tearing something apart tonight.  It was too dark and too late to break out the chainsaw, go out back, and start tearing down some trees.  And I think I should probably take a friend with me if I actually go throw a bunch of glass bottles at the rear of a vacant building I scoped out today for glass-shattering.  (Yes, I really did that.)  So instead, I took everything that either didn't belong in my bedroom or I didn't want in my bedroom and threw it out in the living room.  Now there's a huge mess in my living room.  A HUGE mess.

I wish grief were a little cleaner.  And easier.  And politer.