Thursday, August 9, 2012


I feel like I haven't gotten a deep breath in months.  I keep waiting for my chest to rise and then the sweet simple joy of breathing to hit me.  It hasn't.  I've lost the talent to enjoy breathing.  To relish a basic movement of life.

My hands look old in the light of the monitor.  All lines and veins stand out.  I watch myself type these words and wonder if my face reflects as my hands do.  I feel as old as I must look right now.  Sleepless nights only looked dashing when I was 20.  Now, I look just as I feel; sad & tired.

Each month has become an exercise in corset wearing.  Slow shallow breathing; not deep enough to spread the ribs and cause them to creak in pain against the boning.  Not quick enough to cause hyperventilation and loss of consciousnesses.

Corset breathing and a simple mantra of it will be better next month.  This is the fourth month of this mantra and frankly I didn't really believe it in July or the months before.  I hope the mantra is true for September.  Just a little bit better is all I need.  I need a little something to keep up my good faith.

Or maybe I will just go buy a corset.  If I am stuck with the breath, I might as well get the waistline to go with it.


It is August, the other side of April.  It is another month, but for the sheer grace of a beautiful child born in this month, I would wish it to perdition.

August and I have never gotten along.  Frankly, neither have April and I.  They have always been transition months to me and this year has sparked its best battle yet. Transition means change and while I open my arms to change and the challenge it brings, April and August seems to have particular cruelty to their flavor of change.  Except for two beautiful children.  For them alone, I would be happy to suffer Augusts & Aprils all year long, if it ensured their lives.

I am not beaten by the changes that have occurred in my life.  Humbled, devastated with emotions that pour out of me willy-nilly like I am a cracked vase, but the transition months will not win.

I am not new to loss and I am not new to grief.  I have learned to appreciate its talent in coming in waves.  I've remembered how to navigate my own memories and impulses to swim deeply in sorrow. It is one thing to dwell, it is another to drown.

I am not allowed to drown.  Although, I can never live for two, I can do my damnedest to not leave two children with another painful memory and one with an absence of even that.