Maybe my therapist is right?

I never expected to be writing a blog, let alone one about child loss. Turns out life really is unpredictable. This was partly a suggestion from my therapist, and also me realizing I need a place to put my pain. The rage isn’t going anywhere so I might as well sit with it… and write about it? Why the hell not.

So here I am. I’m doing it. I’m writing to allow myself time to process what’s happened in the last 10 months. As a journalist, you’d think journaling would come naturally to me, but writing about my son’s death feels heavy and daunting.

My life now is heartbreaking. Devastating. Horrifying. All the words used to describe tragedy. Words I’ve used hundreds of times as a reporter, but I truly never thought they’d be words I use to describe my life. As I write that I think, how silly and stupid of me. I was naive. But until you’re faced with the worst of it, I don’t think you can actually imagine how terrible life can be. 

I didn’t know it was possible to live with such immense pain. It still takes my breath away to think I’m living a life without Hudson. It’s excruciating. This is not the life I wanted and definitely not the one I’d planned. It feels like a nightmare on repeat – like some kind of trippy episode of the Twilight Zone, but then you realize it’s all real. Imagine waking up from the absolute worst nightmare only to realize your reality is even worse.

I really did find my perfect little boy, my beautiful one-and-a-half year old dead in his crib. 

It’s only recently I’ve been able to acknowledge that’s what happened. Before I’d say I found him unresponsive or not breathing as if somehow those words could soften my reality. But that’s just it. Nothing, and I mean nothing can soften the heartbreak and horror of losing a child. It’s unnatural and mind-altering and truly will never make sense – but I guess that’s what I am trying to do. I know I’ll never understand Hudson’s death and I definitely won’t accept it, but maybe writing my thoughts out will help me process what’s happened. 

I am on a journey I never wanted to be on – one I’m still not sure I can survive, but the reality is, I don’t have a choice. I think that might be the part I’m stuck on. There really is no way of changing this. I can’t go back in time. Trust me, I’ve laid awake at night googling time travel. Seems ridiculous but grief will make you do weird things. The loss of my child feels so utterly impossible and I think if this can happen, maybe that time warp does exist. If you’ve figured it out, let me know. It could really help my situation. 

But in all honesty, I don’t know what I’d do differently. There’s not one thing I can point to that could have warned me my son was going to die that night. And I definitely wouldn’t change a thing about the way I parented Hudson. I really was a good mom – and I mean a damn good  mom. I can say that now and truly be proud of that fact. The kid had everything a child could want or need. I was that overachieving, first-time mom that insisted on making homemade meatballs filled with veggies or egg bites for him to eat every morning. My husband thought I was ridiculous but I didn’t care because Hudson loved it. The boy could eat and finding new things he’d enjoy became a true joy of mine. 

In Hudson’s short life, he felt love every single day. He knew he was safe and he only knew joy. My world and Sam’s revolved around him. He was our universe and we loved it that way. It’s like when I met him, my life made sense. Cheesy, I know. But when your kid dies, you’re allowed to be as cheesy as you want. And the truth is I feel like I was put on this world to be Hudson’s mom.

I can’t believe it’s been more than 10 months without him. We’re approaching one year and the date looms over me like the darkest cloud. One year gone. That’s two thirds of the 18 months that he lived. 

It still takes my breath away that I’ll never hug him again. Not in this life. I’ll never make him giggle or watch him dance. I’ll never watch him play t-ball or go to kindergarten, graduate or get married. The list goes on and for every experience I won’t get with him, my heart breaks a little more. It truly is shattered in a million pieces – and I don’t believe it will ever be whole again. And, even though I don’t want to, I have to keep moving forward, forever broken-hearted. Here’s me doing it. This is living shattered.