It’s really hard to believe that today and for four hours now, it’s been New Year’s Eve. Last year, I was also awake after a relatively sleepless night.
I remember waking up while the morning was still dark and finding your obituary online.
I remember deliberating for roughly an hour before deciding if and how to share it on social media.
I remember reading it and weeping.
I remember how beautiful and perfect you were because I look at your photo every day.
This year, I’m awake because the phantom monster that is prenatal anxiety came back. Your sister has moved her position or is moving differently, whichever; regardless, I haven’t been satisfied with her level of activity to allow myself to rest, so here we are. (Thankfully, we have a doctor’s appointment today.)
After your funeral last year, your father and I talked as we both had different experiences during your wake and afterward at home with the family; we had different interactions and conversations. One thing that your daddy’s uncle said that still stands out and has resonated harder and harder lately is that, “There’s more than one way to lose a son.”
Some people might find this comment selfish given the circumstances, but I didn’t (particularly because I know his situation). After all, I find writing these love letters to you to be an inherently selfish and somewhat narcissistic activity…as though I’m the only person who’s suffered a painful loss. I cannot even begin to count the number of people who’ve suffered significant, life-changing losses –many harder to bear than mine—with a quieter dignity; however, we all cope differently (and I like to stay in touch with you).
What this comment and my reflection of it inspired is the realization that everybody hurts. Thus, I’ve started trying to take the journey others have endured.
Last night, I was thinking of my doctor who I know delivered a still baby on Mother’s Day last year. I wondered what it must be like to do that, to bring a non-living baby into the world, then to have to “do your job” at the same time. How taxing that must be on a person’s soul. I have another doctor friend who said that patients and patient families can be…well, not understanding. So, then I imagined the doctor who, while inwardly mourning an innocent loss, is simultaneously on the receiving end of a wounded person’s vitriol? The anger quickly becomes blame, and the doctor, who is certainly more than just someone doing their job, has to take it. Not only do they have to take it, they have to take it home; they internalize it; they analyze every step and moment to determine if and how the circumstances could’ve been different.
My doctor has told me numerous times how often she has revisited your life in her care in the hopes of finding something to answer the question of why or how…and there’s nothing. You –like your sisters—were perfect; you were perfect until you weren’t. None of her colleagues (including my high risk doctor) had answers either, which I hope eased her soul at least where we’re concerned; however, I know she hurt for us.
A week after your funeral last year, the bug guy came around to do his job. I kept the appointment on January 7 because…well, I just did. J arrived on time, and because we were in a fog and had forgotten the appointment, we were still in our pajamas and were rather unmade. J didn’t mind; he came in, and perhaps feeling it necessary to explain our appearances or all of the flowers, we told him about Jude.
J told us about his second baby, a little girl, born with a trifecta of genetic defects that meant she could cry but couldn’t produce sound, that she lacked the proper anatomical cavity for going to the bathroom, and that her heart had issues. For eight months, J and his wife endured…they endured surgeries, their baby’s quiet yet obvious suffering, and endless what-ifs and God-knows what else. At the end of eight long months, it became obvious that there was little more modern medicine could do to sustain their baby’s life, and they had to decide to allow their infant daughter’s suffering to end naturally.
His story filled me with sympathy and gratitude (I was appreciative that we never had to make those kinds of decisions for you, Jude…that you never knew Earthly pain and suffering or even the sensation of cold; I felt very blessed that my baby had only ever known warmth, love, and comfort). What J and his wife endured would have turned me into human road kill; I can’t fathom where my strength would’ve come from to be the people he and his wife had to be those eight months. In telling us this, he wasn’t trying to diminish the significance of our loss; rather, he was a person with pain sharing a story. But they survived; they had two more children after losing their second. J was among the first people who helped me to realize that everybody hurts.
Last year, just after we lost you I wrote what would be my first letter to you. I wrote about how we decided on your name, how during a tribute concert with friends where “Hey Jude” was played, I felt that was what I wanted your name to be because I wanted you to be able to make me a better person, to have a more open heart, and to be more hopeful. After a long couple of years of home renovations, struggles to advance financial, and marital and familial growing pains, I was rather guarded, which I didn’t like.
You, in your tiny and infinite perfection, have enabled me to let go of all of those burdens. One year later, because of you, the stresses of those damaging growing pains have been lessened. Your father and I are happier and healthier together; your sister is, well, she’s always been a little light, but she talks now. As you can see, I’ve just had the best year as a freelance writer and editor, and this was only year one.
It’s very odd to reflect and to say that so much about this past year has been good when it’s also been so painful, when missing you has been so hard; however, one emotion I couldn’t find relative to losing you was anger. I never got angry. You were and are too beautiful; you’re too perfect. Anger is ugly, negative, and generally ignorant as far as emotions go. You deserve better, and so I’ve only reserved the best for you.
I think this (or something similar) is whatever most who suffer a tragic loss comes around to…a pacifying acceptance that they can cope with and live with and maybe even grow from. Yes, they walk closer to the veil the separates life from death; they stop to look at it as they contemplate its larger significance. Somehow, seeing the veil flutter carelessly in the wind, walking alongside it, and realizing its significance, they find that life is too brief, too fragile, too precious to do anything less than to live (and what’s more, to live a little extra for those just beyond the veil).
I love you, sweet Jude. Thank you for everything this past year; you’ve given me so much…so much more than I could’ve anticipated when you and I started this unanticipated journey last year. Thank you for living through me and for giving me more to live for. You are and will always be my perfect middle child.
PS: I miss you.