fogged in

My directive for today is to stay in bed. At least until 3:30, when I go to pick Lilly up from school. This should be easy, but we'll see. I've been trying to get up and fill my days with something - tea, make it to the couch for a morning episode of the west wing on bravo, find food, shower. Then...? I've been trying to have plans - one person coming over, or one lunch date out, or one project to be done. One something. One next footfall on the path.

Today my one something is a little bit of work. Just an hour, maybe two, on my laptop. And I'll do it from bed, because I'm tired, bone tired, brain tired. Almost too tired to cry.

This fog of exhaustion is protective, I think. Angel Mae seems so far away, her birth and death a hallucination. The whens and hows and whos of the last three weeks a blur... The physical and emotional aches, the heartbreak (no adjectives sufficiently apply), the fear fear fear, the empty body, the collapsed heap of me in the shower, in the bed, on the floor... all on pause, held at bay by this sleepy fog.

I am trying not to judge the fog. I'm not ready to feel better yet. I want the storms to return. Right now, in my crazy grieving brain, my pain is my love. It is a message: I love you, I miss you, I want you, I'm sorry my body couldn't hold you, I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Come back, come back, come back.

A dear woman who I have never met, another member of this sad club, wrote me a long letter. She told me that whatever I do to remember and to honor and to love my baby is enough. Enough. It is hard to believe that. Today, staying in bed will have to be enough.