Work and school have me pretty busy. Busy is good most days. Busy keeps me from thinking too much and lets me just glide through life, the days flipping away like a calendar rifled by a thumb. Some mornings I wish I had a lover who would bring me coffee and take the dogs out. Some days I wish there were someone to give my tired shoulders a rub at the end of the day when I've been on the computer for 16 hours. It's a nice dream, but it's not reality.
The reality is that if I want something I have to get it myself. If I hurt, I depend on a hot bath to ease the pain. If I am sad, I close the door and have a good cry, burdening no one with my grief and sadness.
A little while ago, I wrote a much longer post, but Blogger ate it. This post, instead, is the stripped-down core of what disappeared into the ether.
It's been eighteen months since Stephanie died. Eighteen months.
That day, I felt like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz--torn apart and scattered, my straw all over the ground. I had a choice. I could lie there and let the wind carry my insides to the four corners of the earth. I could let the that same wind toss me until there was nothing left. Or I could get up, gather the straw that remained and stuff it back in. I could shamble along, beaten and broken but not destroyed. The latter is what I had to do, as tempting as the former might be. I had to keep going. My son was as broken as I was, and he needed me. I had to get up and go on. He and I are there for each other.
If I'm lucky, though, I'll see my beautiful girl in the afterlife. I'll feel her presence strong beside me again, my daughter, my precious child.
There isn't a day goes by that I don't feel like lying on the ground and giving up my innards to the wind. But I get out of bed and keep living, keep breathing.
A simple cup of coffee might give me the stamina to go on, but if I want it, I'll get it myself. I'll have to put my own carrot on my own stick to entice myself to put one foot in front of the other. No one can do it for me.