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Wednesday, January 24, 2018

Grief and desire

When my dad died in 2013, I never had this yearning for a new dad. I never wanted my mom to go out and find a new husband so that I could take the edge off of loss by having a new father figure to love, to talk to on my birthday, to be a grandparent to my kids.

But when my 11-year-old son Riley died in 2014, something happened. Desire turned out to be grief's unexpected sidekick. And through this primal desire to have a baby, I hung the tiniest bit of hope. A new baby wouldn't be instead of Riley; it would be because of Riley. I kept telling myself that if I could grow this because-of-Riley baby, a healthy baby, and keep it alive with my body, then somehow that new life would sand down the edges of grief. This enormous, unrelenting grief.

It seems that the universe doesn't give a shit about my plans for a because-of-Riley baby anymore than it cared whether my son lived or died. Because the universe doesn't care about me or you or my son. Nor does the universe think I deserve anything in the wake of my son's death. I wrote about it in the latest issue of Six Hens.

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