Sister Smak told me that when Henry died a piece of me would die with him.
I honestly didn't know if she was right. I didn't know what to expect.
She was close. It's more like a permanent injury, a cut that won't heal. I'm slowly bleeding, every minute.
Distraction helps. I can't staunch the flow, and I don't try to. I'm aware my compulsive knitting is a coping mechanism. It seems benign enough. Strangely enough I'm enjoying running, again a distraction. Whenever I sit, quiet, without distraction, I feel it, hear it, watch it bleed.
It makes me feel vulnerable. I feel wounded, weaker, and afraid that another hit might make me falter. Proactively (compulsively?) I'm trying to be very careful with myself, my family, my life. Seems a reasonable way to cope.
Right now I'm keeping up with the bleed. Taking my theoretical iron. I remember seeing a man in my 2nd year of medical school with an H/H of 1 and 4 respectively. White as a sheet is an apt descriptive term. He had a slow bleed, so slow he hadn't noticed.
Is that me?