I've written before that I'm not much for guilt. I didn't have a Catholic or a Jewish mother to serve it up to me. And, as an atheist, there's a whole category of "shoulds" that doesn't exist for me.
But I've always been a sucker for hubris. I remember before Henry got sick thinking that I finally had everything that I wanted in life and that I better be grateful, because if I wasn't the universe may be inspired to take something from me, just to teach me a lesson. Humility and graciousness were intergalactic shields from badness.
Then the badness.
And now, I am quite certainly post-badness. I have a devoted husband, two beautiful, inspiring, amazing, healthy girls, a fulfilling career and a good job to go with it, all the creature comforts I need, and great family and friends.
I have a hard time not equating my grief with being ungrateful. My life, outside of Henry's death, is so wonderful that I should have trouble with sore ribs from the constant gleeful laughing that I can't contain. I feel that if I can't corral my grief, I don't deserve what I have.
What if I lose something else? Will I look by on myself and think, "You stupid schmuck. Why didn't you just appreciate what you had left?"