One week ago, when I woke up it was my anniversary.  I was going to have a baby.  I was packing my suitcase to jet set off to Chicago for my Sister’s graduation.  Joey and I were looking forward to our backpacking trip over Memorial Day weekend.

I woke up this morning and tried to remember what it felt like to not have raging pain in my abdomen and a hole in my heart.  I couldn’t.

I really can’t believe it has only been a week.  Seven little days since our world imploded.  How can so much change so quickly?  It’s really hard to absorb…the whole thing has been a major shock to both Joey and I.  But we’re going to make it.

Mom came down yesterday.  She was going to come down in a few weeks for the Van Cliburn piano competition, but she got her tickets moved up a few weeks and HERE SHE IS!  It has been so nice to have her down here.  (Thanks to Pops and The Kid for letting her come!  I am sure they may be close to starving while she’s here.)

I feel like maybe I’m still too much in the middle of both kinds of pain to say “I have learned something from this” yet.  Maybe next week.  Every morning I get a piece of a verse I memorised in Awana, or just some passage I remember, and it encourages me, but then when I go to try to write about it, I can’t remember what it was anymore.  That is so annoying, but I also blame the painkillers.  (Today I called the washing machine the “oven” and the “dishwasher” before I got the correct appliance name.  And I had to ask Mom what it was called again just now.)

We’re making progress, though.  This morning, I took a shower by myself, shaved my legs (NOT an easy feat when you can’t bend over, either), dried my hair, and put on makeup.  I feel almost human again, except for the fact that I only have one pair of pants I can wear, and they’re my faded, bleach-stained yoga pants I got in 2002.

I really wish I could remember the verse that encouraged me this morning, but I can’t.  Stupid Vicodin.  Maybe I will remember it for tomorrow.  But even though all this ugly stuff is happening to us, I don’t blame God.  It’s not his fault, and I don’t think he did it to spite me, even though that would be the easy thing to think.  And sometimes, maybe once a day, I do yell at him for taking my babies…but then I remember that I didn’t give them to myself, they were a gift from God to begin with.

So since He gave them to me…they were really his.