I am angry she is gone.
I am angry for everything she isn’t getting to do, everything she was robbed of.
I am angry all her hard work, and mine is as dust now.
I am angry about what we didn’t know, and what they didn’t check, that left her vulnerable.
I am angry her brother and sister must suffer without her.
I am angry that this is my life now.
I am angry that anyone can expect me to feel or think or do or be any different than I am in this moment under these circumstances.
I am angry that there are people who judge me in my grief, who judge the way I feel and the way I cope. How easy it is to cast a critical eye on those who struggle when you have the luxury and comfort of being able to hold and hug your kids every day.
I am angry about the unfairness of it all. And the fact that every day I have to swallow that big, bitter pill of unfairness while I watch other families know a wholeness we never will again. And that anyone, anyone, can fault me for choking on that truth now and again.
I am angry that kids die.
I am angry that my kid died.
I am angry that I didn’t stop her from dying. And that I had to find her and touch her and see her that way. And “make arrangements” no one can imagine making if they haven’t done it themselves.
I am angry that I will never be the same, that we will never be the same.
I am angry that I am so sad and tired and hurting all the time with no end in sight.