.the devil's breath.

The dry wind is blowing hard here today.  They’re the Santa Ana winds, originally called Santana's Wind.  The Devil's Wind.  A meteorological phenomenon that sweeps through the Los Angeles basin throughout the fall and winter.  It has been inspiring songwriters and arsonists since, well, since forever probably.


Scientists surmise that the winds cause increases in atmospheric cations, which in turn leads to an increase in serotonin levels in the body.  Think Prozac blowing through at sustained speeds of 40 mph (65 kph) with occasional 70 mph (112 kph) gusts.  


Nature's way of saying, chill the fuck out.  Now go eat a sandwich and take a nap.


After George died numerous people approached me with the idea of getting on antidepressants (none of whom were medical professionals, by the way, just concerned citizens).  I politely declined. They thought it was because I was afraid to take them.  I wasn't afraid.  I was just waiting for the fall when the Santa Anas would kick back into high gear and all would be right again.  


Well, that, and I didn't think I needed them.  I still don’t think I need them but I wouldn’t hesitate if I thought that I did.


What I really need, and what I’m wondering if there is some sort of other meteorological phenomenon that can lend a proverbial hand to, is some relief from all this anger and guilt I’ve been carrying around for the last seven or eight months.   Something that will change my brain chemistry, if even for a little while.  That would be nice.


We have a photograph of Leif as a baby on the fridge.  All white blond hair and toothless smile.  I look at it and see George and I am mad.  Mad because I don’t really know that he would have looked like his dad.  It is just a guess.  Mad that I have to guess at such things.


The anger that I have is at the same time broad and directed.  Mad at everything and mad at nothing.  Mad at God and not mad at God, since I tend to not really throw my hat in God’s corner anyway. 


Mad at someone and mad at no one.


I’m looking for somewhere to aim my ire and coming up with only passable targets.  Not worth the effort usually.


Sometimes I'm mad at myself, which is where the guilt creeps in.  Did we do the right thing when we made the decision to not send him to the NICU? They said he would in all likelihood, if he even survived, be severely brain damaged.  We thought we were doing the compassionate thing.  Does that even matter?


I read women’s stories of their children on Faces of Loss and Faces of Hope and occasionally I see things written like the following in regards to making the decision to send a preemie to the NICU,

“I also had to ‘let her go’. How can anyone sleep with that on their conscious? Not me, that’s for sure.”

Ouch. 


We "let our son go."  Even though I know really that he was beyond help, it still stings.  Especially after reading something like that.


The guilt settles in.


I read about women’s stories of the success of extreme preemies surviving thanks to the NICU and I wonder if we had made a different decision if I would be holding a four-month old infant right now instead of sitting in front of this computer. 


The guilt stretches wide the confines of its prison.


Yes, I could do for a meteorological phenomenon of my own.  Maybe a light rainfall would suffice.  No, too cliche.  A hailstorm might be a better fit, metaphorically speaking.  At least a snow flurry.  But the chance of getting snow here is nothing to place bets on.

It is still outside now.  
The wind is all but gone.