Go ahead and be sad. Take your time. Don't listen to anybody who tells you that you should just be grateful he's better. Don't listen for a minute.
Sometimes I still cry when I tell the story of my oldest son's birth. He'll be 18 next month. But I'm not ashamed that those memories are still vivid. I am the keeper of those memories. That's part of my job.
Nobody else can love a boy quite like his mother. And when the boy is in danger, and when the remedy is painful and hard and scary-- it's only natural that the memory of those events is a sad one.
It took time for me to stop feeling like the memory of his birth was an open wound. I wish I had been more patient with myself. Take all the time you need. And if you encounter anyone who wants to tell you to get over it faster -- someone who needs a quick smiting with the Figurative Super-Soaker Of Icy Scorn And Hey Get Off Her Case Already -- just send 'em my way.
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