Yes, it’s very strange to see new photos you didn’t know about. It’s a new kick in the gut, just when you thought you had this whole new, awful routine down, when you thought you knew what to expect. My personal photos of my dead husband are fine, a comfort, but seeing new ones–or seeing ones of him at his parents’ house when I go there to visit–are so much harder. You’ll still get this odd reaction from time to time, long into the future. But it does become a comfort too, to know that the sadness means you still love and remember Liz, and that you can still form new memories of her, even long after she’s been gone. I’m getting flashbacks again by following your harsh, new journey down this path; so much of that first year after my husband died is a fog to me, but the horror and tragedy of it is reflected back to me again by reading your words. And it’s okay; it helps me to remember and acknowledge just what I have survived and how far I’ve come–even when it’s hard to be aware of it most days. And I won’t lie to you, Matt–it’s going to get worse before it gets better. It can always get worse, and it probably will. I’m not telling you this to depress you, so much as to tell you you’re not crazy when it happens. You’re numb and in shock still, and it’ll get much, much worse over time before you start to feel better for longer periods of time. And I’m so sorry, truly, if hearing this makes you want to hit something (or me =)). I know you said you read at least the one post on my blog about triggers (http://crashcoursewidow.blogspot.com/2008/04/so-how-long-does-it-really-take.html); it’s hard to absorb a lot of information so early in grief and you have a lot of tunnel vision/reading, but I hope one takeaway from that post is that it will get worse before it gets better. I hope and pray that you might be one of the “lucky” ones (can I gag on that term, though?) that the first year is truly the worst. It wasn’t for me, although it certainly was the most tumultuous and intense. But it does get better–I will agree with that. It does get easier. It just takes a long time.

Hang in there, my friend, and take it one moment, one breath at a time. Be gentle with yourself. And for the five-thousandth time, I am so very, very sorry that you’re having to live through this, and most especially without your precious Liz. Hold your little girl extra tight, and marvel that such a beautiful piece of Liz has been left with you. Our baby girl was my blessing, my source of peace and strength–one of the only ones–when Charley died, so I do know what it’s like. My thoughts are always with you.

Candice

Today I found your web-site, by accident I think. Until today I had not even heard of you and your wonderful Madeline and your sweet Liz. I can’t explain why I have sat here for most of the evening reading all your posts. I’m not even sure why I even read the first sentence. I do not believe in accidents on second thought. Most of the night while I have been reading I have done so with a tissue to my eyes, trying to clear my vision enough to read. I don’t know what your spiritual beliefs are and I won’t burden you with mine but suffice it to say that I believe we are all connected in some strange and wonderful way. I also believe that there is no real and permanent separation from those we love. So, I did burden you a little with mine. I will continue to read your blog because you and little Madeline have touched my heart and soul. I will visualize you and Madeline In the strong hands of the creator and I pray you find peace and comfort there.

Your daily blogging makes me cry often and also laugh sometimes wondering about funny things, like: has he had that moment of “what smells” then to realize it’s the milk stuck in her neck folds? Does he know to not cut the fabric tags off of all of her toys because babies many times love those more than the actual toys?

Get through tonight and wake-up tomorrow

elipie@earthlink.net