It had been such a long time before I had seen a good day after we lost Jack; a really long time. I’m not talking about good moments. Being a mother to the most amazing, beautiful little creature I've encountered allows me to have had many good moments. Even while laying in a hospital bed less than twenty four hours after the worst day of my life, FaceTime with Kennedy could still make me smile; such a juxtaposition. This is the power of the love I have for her. So good moments have never been lost on me. They feel foreign at times or out of place but they are there nonetheless.
And what does a good day look like? It usually means that I’ve slept through the previous night, not waking up, unable to fall back to sleep, left replaying January 25th over and over in my mind. It means that I can get myself out of bed relatively easily, a heavy heart not weighing me down. A good day means my makeup, which is able to be stretched a lot further than it ever was, is applied and is still in tact by the time I arrive at work. I don’t hide in my office, avoiding struggling children because I can't bear the thought of letting any more sadness in. Good days turn into good nights, where I do the dishes and clean up, fold some laundry, and entertain a stalling toddler’s excessive questions when she calls me into her room no less than half a dozen times after I've put her to bed. They mean that I can focus enough to ask Sean questions and hear the answers, actually having a real honest to God conversation. It means I fall asleep without tears drying on my cheeks. A good day.
Yeah, I have good days. There are more of them at a time than in months prior. And so what does this mean? It means I smile more, even if those smiles don't always reach all the way up to my eyes. It means I don’t have to try so hard to be in the moment when I am spending time with my friends and family.
But here’s the thing about good days. They make the bad days hurt a lot worse. Sometimes the good days trick my heart and so when a bad day pops up it knocks the wind out of me all over again. Good days make me forget how tiring a visceral sadness can be; how, sometimes, for days after a bad day, I am too tired to explain. Good days make me forget how much I hate to see pictures of myself taken before Jack died so that when I walk in the house after a bad day and see the happy, smiling girl with her husband and baby girl hanging above the piano,I could scream. It takes everything out of me not to rip it off the wall and smash it. After a bad day I hate her, how happy she looks. I leave it there though for the good days; good days where I feel hopeful that we can get back to a place that resembles that again, albeit different still.
Before
Something I have always told the kids I work with is: The good thing about bad days is that they always end. I take comfort in knowing that at least one thing I tell them is factual; I can personally attest to it. Every night is the chance to start fresh again tomorrow.
And so, for this gal, coming off a rough couple of days, I look forward to hitting the refresh button and starting what I can only hope will be a few good days; with a week off with my girl coming up, I like my odds.
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