A Year and Then Some

Nearly two years it has been since I've written. We moved. I'm farther away from Caitlin's grave. It's odd. I'm fine.

Really.

Thoughts in no particular order, but not random . . .

The show "This is Us" needs to study the child death traumatic death experience. They get it wrong on so many levels. AND seriously do not use the NICU as a place where moms casually drink coffee around their premi babies and . . . oh, screw it. They don't care; ratings are up when you dramatize moms whose babies might die.

People with children who know you had a living child should well . . . . just never complain to you about their mom struggles. Really. Find someone with a living child; I would die to have your problems.

Fuck Cancer. I'm done with it killing my family and friends. FU Cancer.

Should I consider it progress, if I remember and ruminate over regrets and happenings from before she died? Does that mean that I'm "returning to normal"? It feels as crappy as it did then. So, no. Not progress; regression.

Still fine. I think that's the best I can hope for.

Peace.