Somebody gave me a book recently that is supposed to comfort mothers after the loss of a child. You read something from their experience and then you are encouraged to write your own feelings about whatever the subject of the day might be.
I have been dutifully writing each day, journaling my hurt, despair, lack of understanding etc. I have written to Rip about how he looked and how much we love him. As hard as it is to imagine, I can in some way see how I may need or want to look back at these memories years later.
So I was good with the book until today. Today the book asked me to write down what I had been looking forward to experiencing with my baby, and now never would. I am really not a fan of bad language, but I hurled every word I could think of at the stupid book before physically hurling it across the room.
After a minute I retrieved the book from where it landed under the bed and gave it a piece of my mind, told it exactly what I thought of such a ridiculous question. I felt much better.
I know that anger is a stage of grief, a necessary emotion that helps you to heal. So today, I am angry...I am angry with myself, the doctors, God, and anyone else who dares to cross my path. And I am really angry at that stupid book.