It has been a while since I've written, not precisely for pleasure, but perhaps for catharsis.
March is a month of hyperfocus for me. On March 15th, Stella turned 4. Trevor bought her the Muffin Mobile of her dreams—an electric pink Jeep. Look out, Crow Point! The next day, March 16th, was the 2nd anniversary of the day my water broke, and my life was forever changed. Last year, we were in Vermont. I went with Jake and Adam to a swimming hole and did a polar plunge. They were shocked at my bravery. I was shocked by their shock after what they'd seen me do.
This year, I asked Trevor to help me honor the day in a meaningful way. I went for my first run around the neighborhood of the season, raised my arms to Boston, kissed my Jude zebra tattoo and my Stella star tattoo. When I returned, I wanted to symbolically honor the day again by plunging into the cold water in the ocean at Nantasket Beach.
March has become a month of reflection. I’m hyper-aware of each one over the last four years. In 2021, I was in BIDMC giving birth to Stella during the pandemic. We were in Palm Springs the following year when Stella took her first steps. Then, in 2023, my water broke, and I spent 11 nights in BIDMC before giving birth to my baby boy Jude, in the same room where two years previously I pushed out Stella. I remember those 11 days in ultrasonic detail.
I woke up to a splash between my legs, followed by several more towards my bathroom, ending on a beautiful oriental silk rug we've never cleaned. I called Ariel, who had just arrived in Jackson Hole. It was the middle of the night for her, so she texted back. I told her, "I think my water just broke." She called immediately and said, "You think or do you know?" I knew. We drove to the hospital, not in excruciating pain like during my labor with Stella. It was remarkably calm. Once there, I learned I'd be staying for the remainder of my pregnancy, and that Jude had a double bubble, which caused my water to break. Ariel got on the first flight home, less than 24 hours after arriving in Colorado.
That first night, I bid on an online auction from my room in antepartum, winning a blown glass jellyfish, vintage Barbies, and a knife for Trevor. I ate ice cream from the fridge, unsure if I was allowed to. I settled into my new life in the hospital alone, but not alone, because it was Jude and me. Over the next 11 days, I watched March from my window. St. Patrick's Day was in the 70s, followed by a drop to the 30s, a lot of rain and wind, and then warm weather hope.
After Jude died, I thought about all the time we didn't have together. Time over what should have been a boy's lifetime. Time over most of the days he was alive, and I didn't go to the hospital to visit him. Hindsight is 20/20, and I made the best decisions I could with the information I had. Yes, I wish I'd gone in more. I wish the nurse who made it unpleasant and hostile for me to be there hadn’t. But I didn't know. I thought he was coming home. Until that last week, we all believed that would be the case. We knew Jude's life wouldn't be without complications, nor would ours, but we were ready, prepared to do what it took to bring Jude home to live a life worth living.
But he didn't come home. I felt so angry about all the time with Jude that was stolen from me. I still feel angry in a lot of ways, but more so, I treasure the time I spent with him. The moments of true, pure love between mother and son are mine to cherish. No one can take those from me.
Early on, my therapist pointed out that we were also together when he was in my belly. I hadn't really thought of it that way. I'm not one of those women who love being pregnant. It is terrible. While pregnant with Jude and Stella before him, I never viewed pregnancy as time spent with my baby. It was a means to an end. But in those 11 days, she is right. It was us together. We had visitors and nurses, but we were acutely alone together there in antepartum. I spoke to Jude. I told him to hang in there. We could get to 33 weeks, and we did! I fought to keep my boy inside until that marker in time where outcomes became rosier.
Some time into my stay, I had contractions overnight. I paged the nurse, they put me on IV, the contractions stopped, and they told me to stay hydrated. I drank so much water. I hate water. I've been training my body to live on seltzer and dehydration for years. But for Jude, I drank. On night 10, I had contractions again. I didn't tell the nurse. I knew they would wake me up, monitor me, and steal my much-needed sleep. I drank water, controlled my contractions, and caught a few Zs. Then on night 11, I tried that again, and I couldn't pull it off. Jude was coming. He was ready. By the time I paged one of my beloved nurses, Katie, she asked how long it had been going on. I told the truth; her eyes bulged, she reprimanded me for not calling earlier, and then quickly called in the troops. A few hours later, Jude was here.
A year ago, I was OK during his birthday. But not long after, I found myself in a deep pool of grief. I braced myself for spring. I was so lonely. This year feels different. I don't feel so lonely anymore. Spring feels hopeful. My bulbs are starting to break the surface. On one of the beautiful days of this antepartum anniversary, Stella and I put out all the garden decorations and painted buoys rainbow colors.
And now, today, is Jude's second birthday. That is how old Stella was when he was born. That blows my mind. She was such a person by then. We had so many memories together. She came to visit me in antepartum, and we played with plastic cups and drank juice boxes. My memories of Jude are very few. But they are mine. He was here, and he was real. He had cheeks like a peach and magical hands. He fought like hell, and he changed our world in the brief time he was here.
I love you more every single day, my son, Jude. Happy birthday.