Disclaimer: This is not a cry for help. I'm doing as well as expected. I have a fantastic support system and regularly meet with a psychiatrist and therapist. However, this piece is not about how well I'm coping.
There is a lot written about the stages of grief. Some believe there are 5, while others designate there to be 7. One thing everyone can agree on is they do not move linearly, and anger is one of them. Let me tell you a bit about my anger.
For some of my anger, there is forgiveness. For some, there is not. For plenty of my anger, there is shame.
First, there is the stored-up anger. The ongoing anger. The anger that I've been holding onto in my mind and body throughout this experience.
Let's start with Dr. B. At the second surgical meeting, he was aggressive and condescending. It was the first worst I've felt at the hospital. There were more to come, as you know if you're up to date, but this one was censored. I censored this interaction because I was concerned he might read my post and subconsciously (or consciously) botch Jude's cardiac surgery. I've since uncensored the post because, again, this is my platform, and there's no surgery left to botch. Read the uncensored version here:
We never saw each other again after that meeting. I'm not sure whether it was because Dr. B's counterparts read the room and understood that our meeting in person was ineffective or he was just too busy. Either way, the next time we spoke was on July 11th, the day of Jude's ECMO. He called me to update me and suggested I might not remember him. Oh yeah, dude, I remember you. I will remember you for as long as I remember Jude, forever.
Dr. B, I was so angry with you, but not anymore. I know you did everything you could for my boy and would have done so on his LPA sling repair if you'd gotten the chance. I have heard some of your personal history and know you have experienced your share of trauma and grief. I'm coming to learn just how true that is for all of us. No, we'd not be a good match at a dinner party. But I forgive you for being a prick that day and am forever grateful for all you did to try to save Jude.
Nurse S is the one who confronted me about the visitor policy on June 30th, my brother and sister's birthday.
Nurse S, you wasted no time interrupting my visit with my brother and nephew. You showed not one ounce of compassion or empathy. You had a choice: to look the other way, even for a moment, or to reprimand a grieving mother. You had a choice between decency and strictly abiding by the one-size-fits-all rules. You chose wrong. You made me feel absolutely horrible. My body pulsed with anxiety and shame for weeks.
Between June 30th and his death on June 14th, I only saw him once more when he was conscious. I avoided the hospital because I was traumatized by our incident. I was reluctant to go to the hospital for fear of being punished for the incident or just experiencing something similar. Those were precious days. I can never have them back.
According to my photos, I saw Jude 33 times. Perhaps this is off a bit, but I find it unlikely that I visited and didn't snap a single picture. Let's round up to 35. I saw my son 35 times in the 109 days of his life. I saw him once in the last two weeks of his life while he was still conscious before he went on ECMO. I don't regret working while he was in the hospital or staying home to care for myself, but I regret not going in because I was afraid I'd see you. You stole days from me that I can never get back. I hope you read this and feel ashamed. I will never forgive you.
In the following category, we have my misdirected anger and the subsequent shame from misbehaving towards an undeserving recipient.
On more than one occasion, I've been a monster to the HubSpot North American Leaves Team. Obviously, my situation was a unique and horrible one. But every time I went to interact with the team, I came in, guns blazing, ready to stand my ground.
Our company is constantly ranked highly as a great place to work for families and women. Our NorthAm Leaves Team consists of 2 people. It's hard for me to know exactly how many people that team is serving since over 5K of our nearly 8K employees are remote, but suffice to say that staffing is irresponsibly insufficient. So, for months, there has been chatter in our Slack channels about how hard it is to reach the team, how stressful going on parental leave is when you don't have your paperwork completed, etc.
I joined the ranks of disgruntled moms and expected my interactions to be difficult, and given what was happening to me, I was particularly belligerent. I won't list every hostile email I sent, only the last. On August 1st, I received instructions from the team on the next steps for my personal medical leave, which would begin after my 30-day bereavement leave. I misunderstood the email and thought I had already missed a deadline because the instructions were sent too late. I saw red. I emailed back immediately, outlining my fury, and ended the email saying, "My son is dead, and you aren't supporting me." I updated the subject line to say "URGENT URGENT URGENT URGENT."
A few minutes later, Ty called me directly. She patiently explained that I had 30 days to complete the tasks outlined. She put up with my impatience, aggression, and confusion. She told me that, unfortunately, she talks to everyone on their worst days and still does so much legwork on their behalf behind the scenes. She was honest and amazing. I'm so grateful for her.
I feel horrible for how I behaved to Elizabeth and Ty, the team of two. I hope they read this and know from the bottom of my heart I am just so sorry and grateful to them for helping me anyway, even though I was a huge asshole. I'm very ashamed of my behavior; I know it was wholly inappropriate and unwarranted.
I am, however, angry at the upper levels of our HR department for letting the team get to this situation. If we can't support the people who work at our company, we shouldn't constantly roll out new features. Our budget and headcount strategy has to support the ACTUAL HUMAN BEINGS who make those features. We have a human resource critsit on our hands, and we aren't reacting like the damn roof is on fire.
I am angry that our leaves team was so brutally understaffed. I'm angry it caused so many expecting parents and caregivers incredible stress and concern. I'm angry at our company for letting these two hard-working people become punching bags for everyone on the most challenging days of their lives.
There is one more anecdote in this category, but to tell it, I need to revisit the final days of Jude's life, and I'm not quite ready to do that yet.
Finally, I'm just so fucking angry. I'm angry my son is gone, and this tragedy came for me and my family. I'm angry I only have a handful of memories of my boy, and so many of them are bound with memories of fighting for him and our family. I have a handful of what I consider pure memories of Jude. Times when it was just him and me cuddling for hours in my lap, taking a million selfies and videos.
I'm angry that I cry every night, missing him and what should have been him. I want to think of him and feel happy, but I'm still so goddamn sad. I'm hoping I can work through it in therapy and be grateful and happy when I think of the time I did have with him. But for now, I'm just so fucking angry.