My Year of Magical Thinking.
Until I read Joan Didion's book, I never actually referred to it this way. But that is exactly what it was, that year following my son's death. The year when I waited and watched for him around every corner and conducted myself as though he were going to reappear. Played little penance games with myself on the off chance my behavior might tend to influence the timing of his arrival.
That first Mother's Day, in May of '91. It was just a few weeks after Nathan died. I so strongly felt that he would arrive then. A surprise gift, given quietly without hoopla. I was waiting in the little office off our bedroom (and Nathan's, the rooms were adjoining). I remember wondering when and how he would be presented to me.
Momentary craziness I suppose but it gave me hope.
I was deeply moved by this book. Didion is a beautiful writer and I intentionally slowed my reading to savor her words. I ache for her as I ache for myself. Yet there is no self pity(from either of us for that matter). Or maybe just a little, but it is carefully hidden.
Read this book.