"Ther is a time for everything . . . a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance." Ecclesiastes 3:1,4
It’s done. I’ve finally written my blog letter to Wyatt.
I’ve been planning on writing him one since before his birth. Wanting to leave him something that he can read someday. Wanting to make him feel the gushy warm love of his mommy.
But it took me over a month to catch more than a moment of gushy love. I just haven’t felt much. For the last month I’ve been sliced up, drugged up, and beat up. If I had to pick a word to sum up the month of my son’s birth, it world be “pain”.
I’m still in pain. And I’m angry. Angry that I was knocked out during Wyatt’s birth. Angry that I missed the normal happy meeting of mother and baby and instead barely remember anything but the pain.
And what I do remember fills me with another emotion, guilt. Guilt that I refused to hold my son because I just hurt too bad. Guilt that I refused to see my kids and missed out on their birthday cupcakes the day Wyatt was born. Guild that it took me over a month to feel happy enough about Wyatt’s birth to write him a letter.
Jeffrey assures me that it was the drugs that made me crazy and I can’t hold myself responsible. I know that he is right. But that might free me from guilt, but it doesn't give me back anything that I've lost.
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