It has been a while since I've posted. I've been writing many pieces, but none are ready to post. The longer it has been since I've posted, the more pressure I put on myself for it to be "perfect." I don't want to forget to include an anecdote that seemed so important to me at the time.
I've also lost my writing atmosphere. I used to bring my laptop on the ferry from Hingham to Rowes Wharf and write undisrupted for the 35-minute ride. My internet didn't work, and I could just blast out all my ideas during a built-in couple of hours every week. I'd clean it up when I arrived home and let it rip. Now, I don't go into Boston much anymore. I've lost that writing space that meant so much to me. Finding the focus at home is challenging. As any writer knows, writing is a very lonely act. And since Jude's passing, being alone with my thoughts is much sadder.
Also, I'm writing from a different viewpoint. Before, while Jude was in the hospital, I was writing with the hope and belief that he would come home. I had a purpose. There was a fire in me that sent adrenaline coursing through my body and energized me to fight for him and our family. That fire is gone now, too. I also grieve that loss. I still have hope. Hope that I will carry on his legacy and do something more significant than I would have had I never known him. Hope that our family will heal and show each other more love and tenderness than we would have if we didn't realize how much there was to lose. But my hope, the one that believed Jude would come home and grow up with his sister and his family, that hope is gone too, and I miss it so much.
People ask me how I'm doing. I don't know how to answer that. My chemical balance feels better thanks to my SSRI and Benzo cocktail. I have lots of happy moments. Stella has started sleeping in a real bed, and in the morning, she comes in and cuddles me, which is the most incredible feeling in the world. There's no sweeter sound than her laugh, no more beautiful smile than hers. Trevor and I have never been closer. We work together, do things for each other without asking, and tell each other how much we love each other constantly.
But I'm also heartbroken. The other day, we took Stella to the aquarium. It was my first time riding the ferry since saying goodbye to Jude. When we got there and saw the incredible layer of penguins, her face lit up in a way only a two-year-old who has just seen magic can. I'll never see Jude's face do that. I wept. Will I cry at all these first experiences of hers?
Later that day, we went to the playground while we waited for our ferry home. I did the usual thing parent strangers do in a playground. I chatted with a woman. We talked about our kids' ages, their milestones, how little we remember, etc. She had a three-year-old and an 11-month-old. She asked if I had just the one. I said yes. She assured me that I would remember even less if I decided to have a second. After she left, I started to sob. I felt like I'd just erased my boy.
It was the first time I'd done that. At the hairdresser, weeks after his death, she asked the benign question about whether or not I had kids. I told the truth. She felt awful for bringing it up. I cried in the hair salon. We both felt crummy. I don't think my interactions with every stranger need to be so honest, but erasing him feels awful, too.
But I am going to get back to writing. I have so much more to say. I'm going to stop worrying about it being perfect. I'm going to tell the stories as they are ready. I'm throwing chronology out the window. This blog is going to read like a Quentin Tarantino movie. But I need to come back to it. I need to reclaim a bit of my purpose.
Thank you to the MANY who have reached out to me and my family. We feel the love, then and now, and are genuinely amazed by Jude's and our dazzle.