Nineteen days after Alaska's birth, when I wrote about my new calendar, I hadn't considered that there are five months that don't have a 31st. Of course we just finished one of those months. So I guess as of last Friday, February 28, the last day of the month--the day I should have been 24 weeks pregnant with Alaska--two months have passed.
And it would appear that I'm ok.
Two months hasn't made the pain any less. I suppose that two months makes me better at carrying it and concealing it through the days. I can improve at anything if I practice enough.
As I sobbed through one recent night, I clutched my tear-soaked bear, knowing that it's just a bear. (It's something to hold, but it's not enough.) I forced the bear into my chest, maybe to try to seal up the hole in my heart or perhaps to fight a fear that I have imagined Alaska or another failed attempt to wish her back to life. I should know better than to try to explain away my desperate grip that night.
One thing I do know: Two months out, this still sucks.