Another Week, Another Month 

Dear Olivia,

You’re constantly on my mind and forever in my heart. I’ve been slowly preparing for our Spring Break vacation and am having a difficult time finding the motivation to get excited about it. Twice this week I completely blanked that you were gone and started getting you ready for vacation too. While going through our usual packing routine I thought about your meds and how I needed to call in refills to make sure we had enough for the trip. I flashed back to last summer’s trip to St. Augustine and remembered how great it was to have that handy little prescription container from the pharmacy. The one that made going through airport screening much easier. It was more convenient than the giant bottle and lasted just the right amount of time. The thought of it made me feel like an accomplished mom. Being on autopilot sometimes feels good, but when it goes away I’m left feeling more empty then I did to begin with. The same thing happened when I rolled into a children’s boutique and found myself staring at the adorable bathing suits and wondering which one you’d look the cutest in. Having a little girl was so much fun. I loved and never took forgranted how wonderful it was that you rarely fussed about anything I dressed you in. As long as it didn’t include any net or crunchy time material to it, you were content. 

I want to be happy about vacation, but I’m mostly anxious and stressed out about it. I’m trying to look forward to visits with our friends and family, but being away also means I’ll likely have more time to think about you and that puts me in a constant vulnerable position. That’s the hard part. It’s been three months and most people have stopped asking how I’m doing or how I feel. No one understand how I feel and that’s okay, I don’t want them too, but that also means I have to act like I’m okay, which is what my standard answer is for anyone who does ask. Maybe my heartbroken eyes give away how I really am and that’s why people don’t ask. They don’t to make it worse. Most people can tell that I’m still in a great deal of pain. Regardless of how much time has passed it still feels the same. I certainly feel like I’ve aged 10 years since you left. 

I’m reading that same brevemeant book that I started with for the second time. The words are half new, half old. I read it so early after you passed. Some of it I could relate to then, but now I can relate to even more of it. It’s helpful and makes me think about things that I didn’t consider when I was first without you. Like your bedroom. It’s still intact. I let all the kids, friends and family members play in it. I don’t consider it a shrine, but I also can’t imagine not having it. The book says that’s it’s unhealthy to have a room that goes untouched when someone who occupied it passes away. Your room is touched, almost daily, but I haven’t given any thought to how we’d use it without you in it. I’m not ready for that. Instead, I think about all the happiness it gives to those who play in it. I did give away some of your toys. Mostly to your Early Intervention Teacher, Miss Sharon, who recently shared with me that she gave some of your most treasured texture and sensory toys to a very young girl who reminded her of you. It felt good to hear that.

I miss you, Livy. You can’t imagine how much. I’m pretty sure that I would die today if it meant I would be guaranteed to be with you. Your Daddy and Sage are my daily reminder that I’m not alone. 



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