I never wanted to be the expert

I would consider myself an optimist. I try to think the best about people and situations. And compared to hubby, I'm an eternal optimist! (But, I guess you'd have to know how he can be a sour sam sometimes.)

However, ever since losing Morgan, I think the worst about those closest to me. It's the oddest hole in the pit of stomach that I can't shake. I actually find myself exploring deeper into the caverns of my soul. The places that people don't talk about. The places I wouldn't dare travel to ... until now.

Does that happen to anyone else? I almost feel depressingly freakish to admit it.

Here's an example: Brent drove to Pulaski, N.Y., for his yearly salmon fishing trip. I can't tell you how many times I had horrid images scroll through my brain all ending with him dead -- car crash, swept away down the river, carbon monoxide poisoning in the much-to-be-desired trailer he stayed in.

Ridiculousness.

The interesting part that I am still trying to grasp was the emotions that followed. I was completely calm. I thought about what I would do and say, how I would handle arrangements, where I'd go and the list went on. Then, out of the blue, I'd snap out of it and scold myself for thinking so morbidly.

I'm hoping this is just a side effect (if you will) of planning Morgan's funeral. The only other death that rocked me to my core was my Poppo's, and I was in eighth grade. I was there when he passed away, but I played no part in the preparations.

Maybe now I feel like I'm an expert on funerals, educating people on the existence of baby cemeteries, plaques and prayers. The thing is ... it's one area in which I never wanted to know everything. The silent loneliness, the unspeakable sorrow, the cloak of darkness that I can't remove.