One Month

Today is one month since you had the stroke. Your spinal cord infarction.

I am glad Mr. Yummy is not here today as I woke up thinking of you and your daughter. I miss her and I am worried for her. I wish I could bring her here with me.

I keep hearing myself ask you, “How could you leave them? How could you leave me? How could you have not told me?”

Why did both of us keep saying, we have to see each other? I literally felt an urgent need to see you the last three weeks you were alive before the stroke. The stroke. The stroke. The fucking stroke.

I can not help but think of your kids, as my kids. Part of me knows you would love this, because you know how much I love them. Part of me knows how much you would hate this, because they ARE NOT my children, they are YOURS.

I watched you have at least five miscarriages. I admit to losing count there were so many. I remember getting pissed off at Jim every winter when he was laid off and wouldn’t just wear a fucking condom. There came a point that every time I heard you say, “I’m pregnant”, I’d get angry because I knew most likely, I would be the one grieving with you soon.

I also watched you have four babies, and in those pregnancies, when it became apparent this one would “take” and we would stop worrying as much, I would celebrate with you.

Each of your children is bonded with me in their own unique ways.

DJ, is tied to me by the fact our friendship began with your pregnancy with him, and mine, with The Girl. (Whoa, I haven’t used The Girl in a blog post in years now) We became parents together with our “First” children.

Miscarriage, Miscarriage, JC.

JC, is bonded to me in the fact he and I are the middle kids. He is your second born, just like me. Everything this boy learns, he learns the hard way. He and I are both students of the school of hard knocks. I’ve graduated, he has not.

Miscarriage, Miscarriage, Miscarriage, MLB

I am bonded to your daughter, because of that long talk we had about why you didn’t want girls. “I know what happens to girls when they are little. No fucking thank you!” I cursed you to have and experience a girl. I believed you needed to have and understand those bonds of love between a mother and daughter if you were ever going to heal from the wounds you held so deep involving your mother. You did. You had your little mini me, and uttered to me about five years ago, that having her probably saved your life. You actually said to me that you loved having a daughter and that you had kept her safe. Till she got sick.

Miscarriage, TXR

I bonded to the boy genius, by going through the weirdest, and yet most normal pregnancy with you. After having four months of 3 week periods, with one week off each month, and saying “NO!” to being pregnant…you, Miss Uninsured, finally went to the doctor. You were four months pregnant with twins. One of which, you had been having a miscarriage. Once this finished, you had the most normal pregnancy either of us had ever seen you have. It makes me sad to say I won’t be able to keep the promise I made you of keeping ALL your children in my life, because TXR’s dad doesn’t like me and will not let me see him, but you knew this. We both knew that as Christian as he has become, he hates, and judges me for being your best friend. Because I love you and supported you, and he thought we were lesbian lovers whenever he wasn’t around. One day, he will turn 18 and your other kids will have kept stories of Auntie alive. I bet he will seek me out.

In six hours, it will be one month, to the moment that I got the call. My new years resolution, was that I would have no drama in 2015. Unrealistic in ways, but still a great goal for me. Girl…I bet you’re laughing. The thought of you laughing, makes me cry because my greatest wish is that where you are now, you are full of love and joy, knowing you are without human baggage.

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About iwentcrazy

I am very, very, very average. And very, very, very lucky.

Posted on January 25, 2015, in Honey Bee, Love, Rabbit Hole, Relationships and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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