I find myself almost completely unable to be happy for people I don't like. Well, I suppose that's very normal, but I'm sure it makes me seem terribly petty and mean. And I am--or can be. Anyway, now that my son is gone, I CANNOT be happy for you. Let me just put it bluntly. Your happiness is completely taking away from my son's death. And before you think I'm sitting in the Hollywood windowsill (see previous post), I would have felt this way regardless. At least partially.
You see, when Olivia was still in utero, I was so excited to be "the
preggo." The world shuts down and throws a parade for the pregnant
woman in the family, in the office, wherever. But then all these people
started getting pregnant at the same time. And HOW DARE THEY. Well,
that's what I was thinking at the time. I didn't want my child to have
to share a spotlight with anyone. Olivia is the cutest thing ever, and
so terribly precocious, and dammit, the world should celebrate her as
So now here I am, with people trying to hone in on the "normal"
spotlight I'm trying to hoist for my son. Normalcy is the only thing
that gets me by. My survival technique includes demanding for all who
will hear that my son lived--had a life--and should be treated just like
any other child before him.
Therefore, I'm just laying it out there. I don't want to hear about
your pregnancy or your new baby. I will unsubscribe from you on
Facebook. You're lucky if I haven't forgotten about your child in the
first place (however, apologies are in order in some cases, I'm sure). I
want you to ask about MY son. My handsome son who lived with me for 23
weeks, got a name, had a room set aside, had his pictures sent to
family and friends around the world. My son who lived, regardless of
what you might think, deserves your attention, and deserves to have his
story heard. So please don't share. Ask. It's all we have any more.