I wish I were less angry than I am. I'd hoped that by six months, I'd be more at peace. I'd hoped that God would've shown me things to prove that He's out there and that Logan still is. But I haven't seen much, and it's disheartening. The essence of faith is, at its root, believing something to be true even without rock solid proof. I understand that. But now... now I need to know it's all true. Wishing, hoping, suspecting isn't enough. Not now. And I get tired of well-meaning Christians who have no idea what it's like to lose a child telling me that I should just believe. Yeah, whatever. It's an easy thing to do when you've never had something awful --truly awful and heartbreaking-- bite you after you'd poured your entire being into begging for a good outcome.
The big misfortune of yesterday was that it happened to be a Saturday. Logan died on a Saturday, which meant that the entire day, it felt like I was dodging memory bullets: seeing Adam on the driveway waiting for us after dance and the immediate sinking awareness that something horrible was happening; feeling my heart drop into my toes when I walked into the PICU room and saw his heartrate and oxygen sats; making the torturous decision to spare him a heart attack and just... let him go. You don't get over that kind of thing. Ever, I fear. It stays with you, and somehow "oh, just have faith" doesn't do much to make it better.
But despite all of that, I thought I was okay until bedtime. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I felt... angry. I don't like to give in to anger much. It's not worth the emotional energy cost. I yelled for a while, then cried for a while. And then I went into Brady's room because I needed to hold someone small. Someone who wouldn't remember or feel the despair that I sometimes feel. It hurts me that Brady won't remember Logan. But at the same time, it also means he'll never have to bear the burden of losing him. So I held him in the darkness and cried some more. It didn't make it better. But at least it didn't make me angry.
It's been a hard couple of weeks, yes. Not that that's something new or noteworthy, really, because every single week is hard and painful. It's been torture watching Logan's summer birthday buddies turn six. Pure torture. It's been torture listening to parents complain about birthday parties and the advancing ages of their children. Every time I hear a complaint, I have to stop myself from smacking the person and responding "I sure wish my kid was getting older this year". I bite my tongue, because I know no one really cares. No, that's not fair. Some people do care. It's more than I know that very few people *get it*. After all, if you *got it*, you'd stop complaining about stupid, trivial things around me. That's what I meant to say. But it's just my reality, after all, and people are entitled to bitch and moan about stuff regardless of whether it's truly bitch and moan-worthy stuff. We all have our problems, sure. But some of our problems are way bigger and way more painful than others'. But I'm biting my tongue. Yep. Not a word.
Anyway. I have macaroni and cheese to make and plants to water.