Grief, 18 months after my son’s death, is so much less sharp than it was before that at times I feel guilty. I still think of him every day, and likely always will, but the edges have blunted tremendously. I both hate that, and am grateful for it. I miss my little boy. I will always wonder what he’d look like as he grew. He looked so much like me, and I mourn that I may never have such a lookalike child again.
But – I am back to not remembering when was the last time I cried (oh yeah! It was when we went to see the movie “Inside Out” last weekend. Total sob fest even though it’s technically a children’s movie. But the wife is a child psychologist and researches emotional development so of course we had to see it). To clarify: the last time I cried about losing him, or one of the tangential losses (never having the opportunity for a vaginal birth, for example).
Ironically, I’m now more grateful: that I could get pregnant at all, that we have the financial resources to ensure some sort of child-filled family, that I will always be a mother, that I always had a son. I have been too involved in babyloss websites and social groups to take those things for granted. I am grateful that I have family and friends who talk about my son and remember him with us. I look at his adorable picture every day, and while I am sad, it’s not the choking ache.
To all you mamas out there still hurting: it can get better. Hang in there.