Rage

Some people carry their babies around in strollers and car seats.  Some carry them on their hip or nuzzled against their chest in a sling.   I carry my baby around in a box.

I am infuriated that this has to be her mode of transportation.  I want to flip over a table or go on a yelling rampage in a crowed place.  I see babies strapped in their strollers enjoying the marvelous sunlight and think of my baby who is at home in a dark stuffy box on my bedroom dresser.

I get so angry that this has happened to our wonderful family.  The family that was once filled with unconditional happiness and now, each moment of joy is haunted by a shadow of darkness.  Each holiday celebration has a pang of hurt.  

I'm mad that R lost her sister.  That I have to raise her carefully treading the lessons of death and loss as she grows up.  Oh yeah...and not screw her up in the process.  

I'm enraged that our family has a hole.  I look at our family picture and see the space where Quinn should be.  It hurts to see complete families' photos.  How would they feel if one person just disappeared from their family portrait?  

My mind is too rational to act on my fits of rage.  After the steam blows through my ears and the urge to punch and throw things passes, I just crumble and melt into a fit of tears.