Each day I think I might learn. Each day I never seem to.
Another day starts with the battle between entropy, atrophy and waiting for some kind of movement and internal compass to initiate direction.
It was beautiful even though I left it too late to relax and appreciate it as much as the glorious day deserved.

Written on Mothering Sunday-

More thoughts on shame and the constant pain of different losses. I’ve not read the book, just the review...
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/feb/06/childless-voices-by-lorna-gibb-review

A relief to find others find some comments are like hot arrows in the heart ... re: Derbyshire (and I seem to remember Obama saying something similar) and Leadsom.
The feeling of barren dust beneath the feet of the world and feelings of diminished worth.
The pain. People are so ready to talk and empathise with the inconceivable loss of a child.
The constant pain of the loss of the never had is so much more difficult to identify with and connect with. It is, after all, nothing. Nothing at all. Complete and utter, devastatingly, nothing at all. Negative numbers don’t figure.

In the meantime, I stupidly tackled the tiniest bit of paperwork sorting and came across G’s coroner’s report that I’ve barely read since I got it. It talks of a person I didn’t know, a cadaver, of necrotic mass, of metastasis, of blood filled lungs, of the weight of the left lung, compared to the weight of the right. I was offended by the ‘thinness’, the ‘malnourished’. The cancer had consumed all that I had fed him, all that I had tried to make to encourage the failed appetite. The cancer was the uninvited guest the dinner table. I hadn’t realised what I fed him was being eaten by another; that dark unseen shadow cast over us chomping away from the inside.