A friend asked me recently how I was doing handling what must be an overwhelming emotional experience. And the truth is, I... haven't been overwhelmed yet. I assume it's because I'm so good at compartmentalizing (it *is* one of my talents -- along with packing; I'm particularly good at packing the car, a genetic gift from my father); or maybe I just have a gift for forced-march Zen. I told my friend I kind of feel like the little Dutch boy at the dyke, but instead of holding the ocean back with my thumb, I'm slowly letting the ocean leak through in manageable (so far) amounts. But I have to tell you, I'm a little worried that there isn't a tidal wave of emotion waiting to crash down on me. What if I'm just, I don't know, lacking?
I finished up boxing Jane's things today. And it wasn't horrible. Oh, I had some serious heartpangs over packing outfits she never got to wear, and trying to figure out what to do with the fancy-pants baby shampoos and sweet almond oil and tiny hair clips, but it was all... manageable. Dealable. Am I just that cold? I miss her terribly, I feel off-balance not having my days occupied with her. But, at least for now, I'm able to cope with it all. I don't quite know what to make of it.
Maybe it's that our lives are (SHAMEFUL CONFESSION) simpler now. Easier. Logistically, anyway. And she was never here, never home with us. She was, in a way, never just ours. Or maybe it's just that we paced ourselves for the long haul, not knowing that we only had a short haul to contend with. It turned out that coping with Jane's life was training for coping with her death. Or something. What do I know?
You know what I hate? That her name died with her. She had an AWESOME name. Seriously. I loved her name. And now... it's gone. Dammit.
Also? I hate not having new pictures of her. Every day I had a raft of photos to pore over. I hate that I'll never see a new picture of Jane.