It’s almost here.

That day I mark each month.

The utterance of that number for any reason….

Seventeen cents, please
She’s seventeen now
I caught seventeen mice

(That last one would trigger anyone…I know)

That number has become a hangnail. It brings sorrow and black butterflies in my belly and the sound of it, when called out for whatever reason, is a deafening blow.

My mind plays tricks on me. It tells me that this is still a bad dream. A cruel joke. A mean prank. It cannot accept any reality. Even when I talk to myself, corner an understanding, hammering it into place, I can’t grasp fully what’s happening. It’s slippery. My mind just can’t hang onto it.

Is that protection? Is it denial? Is it healthy?

My counselor keeps reiterating, “It’s ok not to be ok.” Well, thank God.

It will be nine months on Saturday. Can you wrap your arms around that? Because I can’t.

Nine months. That’s how long I carried him. That’s how long he was physically tethered to me. That’s how long I anxiously waited on him to get here, how long I wondered what he would look like, what he would sound like. What it would be like to hold him and comfort him. Would he have blue eyes like Bill? Blond hair like me? What fantastic things would he be? Nine months.

Now,

Nine months of wondering where he is. Waiting on him to get here. What will he look like and sound like when he walks through the door. What would it be like to hold him and comfort him? Do his eyes still sparkle? Has his hair darkened? What fantastic things has he been doing?

I’m still very lost. I’m still flailing in so many ways. My head sinks beneath the water’s surface and I still get choked when I breath in at the wrong time.

It’s lonely out here. I have family support, professional support and spiritual support. I couldn’t be more blessed in the support area. Still, there is this awful isolation. I feel desperate so much of the time.

On the flip side of that is the comfort I feel. The love. The warmth. The peace. The blessings. The celebrations.

The juxtaposition of those two sides are a ball of confused energy.

I never know which way I’m going to land.

If I land on the hellish side, I’ve gotten better at soothing myself. Or rather, I’ve opened myself up for God’s soothing. But I have to do it on purpose. Sometimes it’s like pushing a car off of my chest. I know I have to in order to breathe, but it takes all of my strength and wears me down and out.

I’m having a hard day today. I miss my child. I miss his laugh, I miss his companionship, I miss his humor. I miss how stinkin ornery he is.

This terrible hole.

If I may be so bold, let me help you help me, and others like me.

The silence is too much. Fill it up for people you know that have had the rug pulled out from under them, people that have had their worlds turned upside down. Call them. Send them cards. Flowers. Fuzzy socks. A new book and blanket. Bake them a cake or make them homemade chocolate pudding. Drop off a lasagna. Show up and clean their refrigerator out.

Or show up and have a glass of iced tea.

We need you. We need your attention, your affection and your interest.

We need you to help fill our silence up.

That’s just a suggestion. From someone who knows. I know you don’t know what to say to me. The secret is, there is nothing you can say. Not to make this okay.

But you can bring me a latte and tell me about your awful new neighbor or you can bring the new dress you just bought for a baby shower and show it to me. You can help me to laugh. You can help to take my mind away.

This part of my life is hard. Some days, it seems impossible.

That doesn’t mean my life doesn’t have joy in it.

Two halves that don’t make a whole.

I feel like this was a ramble today. But that’s what’s on my mind. I just simply wrote what I felt. I hope when I get done, it’s understandable. I’m too tired to go back and see.

Please keep our family in your most fervent prayers. We need your intercession.