Matt Logelin again

[pegkerr]

I just wanted to mention again how compelling Matt Logelin's blog is (I posted about Matt previously; he lost his wife Liz to a pulmonary embolism, a mere 27 hours after their first child, Madeline was born). See the story here. He just posted an entry about how heartbroken he was when Madeline's crying at 2:30 a.m. interrupted a dream he was having about speaking with Liz again, telling her everything that had happened since she died. (Man, his wife Liz was beautiful. And he was obviously totally in love with her. See, for example, the entry that begins with this picture.)

If you want to follow along with Matt and Madeline's daily adventures (he's a wonderful writer and a gifted photographer), you can follow the RSS feed I've set up: mattlogelin.

Edited to add: See also this really beautiful photo montage set to music, created by a professional photographer who donated her time to take pictures of Matt and Madeline.

Comments

[irinaauthor.livejournal.com]

I started reading this blog when you first linked to it. It's so sad. I started to tell my husband about it, but as soon as I said that the wife had died the next day, Steve said, "Stop. I don't want to hear any more, because I don't even want to think about that being you." It's such a sad blog.

[pegkerr.livejournal.com]

Yes, it's extremly sad, but weirdly, it's beautiful, too. I think it's an unparalleled example of how grief can be transmuted through love into something remarkable. He is channeling his love for his wife into his love for his daughter, and it's a very moving thing to see.

[irinaauthor.livejournal.com]

His photographs are gorgeous too, and she's such an adorable baby.

My one gripe is (and believe me, I know it's kind of a crap thing to do to gripe about the poor guy's grief blog), I don't get the random line breaks.

[moony]

I've had dreams like that, about my mother. I'll try to tell her what's happened to me since she died. And inevitably I'm woken up before I can finish, so I'm left feeling unsettled and incomplete.

Later though, I'll think about how she looked - not sick, like she was the last time I saw her, but happy and healthy, smiling - and the unsettled feeling will go away and becomes something else, that I can't quite name.

I think it feels something like hope.