May 7 - Wednesday: Grief at 2 Years

Grief at 2 years feels very different from grief at 1 year. On June 14th, the first anniversary of Jude's death, I shared a post here, and then I went into hibernation mode. That day, that time, that season of my grief was an inflection point for me.

Grief at 1 year is one of the hardest things I've experienced. The rawness I still felt was miles away from how folks, even 1 layer removed from our tragedy, felt. I was devastated, I was angry, I was lonely. After that day, I held my grief more privately. I didn't consciously decide to do so. I did what felt right in the moment, and looking back, I can see that as what I did.

At 1 year, I couldn't understand how the rest of the world was moving on with their lives. Didn't people realize a beautiful boy was missing from this world? Jude should have been there. He should have been crawling around, making a mess of my house. He should have been injecting the beautiful messy chaos into our world that only children can. But he wasn't there.

In that first year, much of my writing and behavior were my way of sending out an APB. We need all hands on deck here. I need support, or I'm not going to make it.

But in year 2, I learned to hold my grief more privately. I grew confident in my ability to ride out the grief aftershocks. I no longer needed that anchor. I started to find my strength, my recovery. My grief has shown me my power and resilience. I have this strength no one would choose, but it is mine, and it is part of Jude's legacy.

What does "holding my grief" privately look like? I gave myself space to feel my feelings and to visit Jude. I learned I couldn't predict how my emotions would manifest, but if I created space to visit Jude, to visit my grief and my love, that was enough. The feelings would come and express themselves however I needed at the time.

On one occasion, I walked through Boston. I listened to Taylor Swift's "Bigger than the Whole Sky." The song is on my "Jessie's Tay" mix, and I quickly skip past it whenever it comes on. It is too hard to listen to if I'm not ready. But that day, I was ready. I gave myself space. I walked through Boston on a beautiful fall day, crying, singing, and feeling close to my son.

On Jude's second birthday, I stayed up past Trevor and Stella and watched the many videos I made with Jude in the NICU. In them, I record Jude's growth, his health updates, his personality, and our journey.

Some are very hard to watch, bringing me back to just how hard that time was. They catalog every new bad test result, each three-letter acronym that marked his genetic abnormalities: ONH, PAS, LPA sling. I used to know these letters by heart, and I now have to reach deep into the caverns of my brain to find them. These letters were all survivable in themselves, but collectively, they proved to be a death sentence.

But the videos are also wonderful. I see a beautiful boy growing. He has a personality. He tried so fucking hard. He lifted his head and did tummy time. He smiled.

Photographs I see every day are important to keep him in our hearts and world. But they are static. Sometimes, even for me, he feels more like a story than a memory. The videos remind me that he was real. Watching the videos helps me feel him again, not in terms of his legacy, but in terms of the time I actually spent with him. In those videos, I feel my incredible love for my son, and I shared with him as much as possible while he was here. While he was real.

I visit his bench in World's End regularly by myself. I'm making a ritual of it as best I can. When the weather is nice, I run the park's outer loop and end at his bench. I don't wear headphones. I have no distractions. I am focused on the present and connecting with him in this time, I've carved out for us to be together. Over the last few months, I've grown powerful. When I first tried this run, there was quite a lot of walking. Last Friday, I was flying.

My grief has become my strength. Jude has made me strong. Now, perhaps I can start to enter a new phase. If the first year was an SOS, the second was a hibernation, maybe the third can be something new. A time where I can share and tell folks about my journey, but without the dependency: I can share, and I can also hold my own grief. I don't need help anymore. Because my grief is mine, and I'm strong enough to carry it. But Jude, Stella, Trevor, and I have people who care about us deeply, and even if I don't need them, I want them, and they want me.

So if you will have me and Jude, I think I'll write a bit more again. Our story isn't over.