or so they say. But for quite awhile I merely existed. I was convinced God was punishing me for some unremembered sins of my past. I was also convinced that Rocky's leaving me was just a matter of time. He just didn't seem as devastated as I felt by Robby's death. He soon got tired of having to quieten me every night as I cried, lost in my own sorry world of depression. I hated myself and everyone around me. If it wasn't "Well, he's better off in heaven" it was "So, it's a good thing he went this quickly so you didn't have a chance to bond with him or anything" or "You can have more, you know."

All too soon,

even those ill-phrased well wishes were abandoned in favor of a new tactic--ignore the subject, and maybe she'll get over it. I've always been a talker, and this new taboo subject of my own son's very birth and death put hamstrings on my emotions that hurt worse than any pain I had ever experienced before. I quit cleaning house,(not that I was ever adept at it); my personal grooming tended to covering up the necessaries--to avoid arrest, I suppose. Next thing to go was personal hygiene. I just didn't care anymore. There was an abyss between Rocky and me, and there seemed no reason to try to ford the distance. I hated God--and felt damned for doing so. I reviewed my entire pregnancy over and over again, trying to find out what I had done wrong, knowing I would never get a chance to do it over anyway.