The What Ifs

Damn, I am remarkably NOT sore today. I mean, I have a few little twinges, but nothing like what I thought I’d have, and definitely nothing like Wednesday. Oddly, even though I felt noodly after yesterday’s workout, I started feeling a lot better about three hours later. Coincidence? I don’t know. But I am dying to see how next week goes.

Last night was a rough one for Jeff and I. We couldn’t even begin to tell you why. The date is not important. We didn’t see anything on tv or read anything, but we both spent the last three days or so thinking about Jasmine. I wrote about her in my morning pages yesterday and mentioned it to Jeff. Then last night he had a “what if” attack. It’s bad when we have these at the same time. Usually one or the other of us is pretty firm in knowing and feeling we did all the right things. Last night, neither of us were, though I gave it a good college try when he broke down.

I can rationalize all day that we did all the logical, right things. But there is still some part of me that whispers or shouts the “what ifs”. What if the doctors were wrong, what if she was screaming inside for us not to make that choice, what if there was another choice we didn’t think of. This morning I wrote about it some more and I’m wondering. Where do the “what ifs” come from? It’s not my heart. If I shut them up and calm myself, find that still point, I know in my heart AND my head we did the right thing. But as soon as I’m not paying attention, there they are, like a sleazy drug dealer or old boyfriend, whispering, cajoling and manipulating me to that place of guilt and doubt. What purpose does that serve? I don’t fucking know, but I wish I could just slam the door on it, like I could with that drug dealer or boyfriend. When the “what ifs” come, it’s like being thrown right back into the hell we endured the night after she died.

So after Jeff went to sleep, I crept back out into the darkness of the living room. We haven’t put Nina into her crib yet. There’s always a reason why not. But since she’s still in our bed, I can’t cry in there. I can weep, but if I move, if I make a sound, she wakes up. So I went to the sanctuary of the living room and sat in the quiet, cool room, listening to the sounds of the night outside. That old hand that squeezes my throat and keeps me from crying came back, so it was a wasted trip anyway. I finally fell asleep on the couch, clutching the dragonfly quilt we bought after she died.

This morning I am calmer and sad. My mind edges again towards the “what ifs” but I am not letting it go there. It’s easier during the day, when there are things to do and distractions all around.

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