five month update

I guess an update is overdue. 

It’s been almost 5 months since Pete died. I’m not ready to publicly talk about “that day” quite yet. But I do feel an overwhelming urge to be talking publicly about what all this has been like. 

When he died, I thought I could keep my “old life” if I stayed in my house and pretended things were normal. For 2 weeks, I had a revolving door of family and friends staying with me and helping. Ford wasn’t even 3 months old at the time and was a handful of a baby; he had to be strapped to me in a baby carrier to be calm, and getting him to sleep required 45 minutes of vigorous bouncing as we did circles around the house. My mom and my Aunt Darri were unbreakable soldiers for me during those weeks. They helped me carry my grief and they physically held my newborn while I took phone call after phone call; first from the hospital and then from what would feel like every person I’ve ever known. And to add insult to injury, we all got Covid after managing to avoid it for 2 years. I called Ford’s doctor in tears, having to explain that my husband had dropped dead a week earlier and I’m sure the baby was fine, but that I needed him to be seen to be sure and that my anxiety was through the roof. I didn’t have it in me to play “wait and see.” They got me in immediately, and sure enough, Ford was just fine.

After Pete’s  service, I convinced everyone to leave. I felt I needed space to process the absolute whirlwind of what we’d just gone through. For 6 days, it was just the boys and I at home. It felt absolutely empty there. Haunted. The baby cried just as much, except Axl needed me even more so I was stretched paper thin mothering them. Helping my 4.5 year old navigate what was happening and what “died” means, while my newborn cried endlessly for milk and snuggles felt insurmountable and the list of logistical things needing to be put in order after one loses a spouse grew longer and longer. 

I was scared of being alone with my kids in that house. We’d always had a protector and now that was solely my job. Axl had never slept in my bed a night in his life and now I was sleeping cuddled right up against him with the baby’s bassinet pressed to the side of the bed. I couldn’t let them out of my sight. My anxiety was suffocating. They’d just had one parent literally drop dead out of nowhere, so what would stop the same thing from happening to me? God? The universe? None of that stopped my husband being taken from me and my kids losing their dad, so I had little faith. I’d spent my life calming my anxiety by telling myself my black hole thoughts and extravagant thinking would never happen. Well, my worst nightmare happened and now no amount of reassurance could convince me another tragedy wasn’t lurking right around the corner. 

By the time the end of those 6 days approached, I felt like a hollowed out shell of a human. My whole life had been scooped out and splattered on the pavement. Pete’s shoes were waiting for him by the door. His glasses were still on his bedside table. His work bag was still packed. The fridge and pantry were full of the groceries he lovingly bought and put away. The remnants of him were all over our house and each day was like tiptoeing through broken glass. I never knew when the sight of something that reminded me of him was going to slice me wide open without warning. At the same time, I wore all his clothes and used his deodorant and wrapped myself in his jackets. I started wearing his wedding ring around my neck. I needed parts of him around me at all times, even when it was painful. 

I also needed to get out of that house. I needed the village that had showed up to take care of me. My Aunts drove from Vermont to come and help me pack up. That weekend would be one of the hardest of my life.  I packed up as much as I could, anything that was important to him or reminded me of him, things I had no use for but just… needed. No one was going to argue with me. My mom came into town and took care of the rest, swiftly packing up things I would actually need for my kids and me to live in another space. It was as if it was Supermarket Sweep, my house full of people packing and loading as if the house was on fire. It’s as if they all knew I felt like I was on fire and needed to get out of there to be extinguished. 

I couldn’t sleep at all the night before we left town. I stared at the ceiling and silently cried as my children slept beside me. This had become my usual routine, but now I was thinking about how this was our last night in this house as we knew it. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone or if I'd ever even be coming back, and I knew that even if I did, it was never going to be our family home again. It was hard being endlessly reminded that Pete was missing, but the thought of leaving the only place where my family had been complete was excruciating. But I knew I couldn’t stay there if I wanted my kids and I to heal and rebuild. Pete and I were the only members of our family on either side to be living in Massachusetts. His family was 6 hours away and mine was 3 and even though we had an extensive work family and a handful of exceptional friends, it wasn’t enough to help me literally raise my children and rebuild my life from scratch. 

So we came to Vermont. My mom’s longterm boyfriend generously offered up the studio apartment above his garage, which I quickly started referring to as our “cabin oasis.” And we’ve been here ever since. We’re surrounded by land and mountains and open skies. There are goats in our yard and horses next door. We live and sleep all in one room, Little House on the Prairie style, and we make it work. 

The winter was tough, but we made it through. Pete absolutely loved the snow and after he died, it snowed almost every day all winter. No matter where we traveled or who we visited, inches and inches of snow would end up following. Each time, I pretended it was him saying hello. The night the hospital called me and told me that things weren’t looking good, that they thought I should say goodbye, our outdoor cameras caught the most delicate snow flurry outside. I felt it was him saying- I’m okay, I’m not in that hospital bed, I am already out here in the ether. And now that it’s spring, I feel him in every rainstorm, every sunny day, even in the wind. He loved being outdoors and I find a lot of peace imagining that now he gets to be a part of it. 

Axl started at a new preschool, and in the fall he’ll start kindergarten where I went to kindergarten, where my mom and her siblings all went, where my grandfather worked for years. At his preschool, all the teachers know his family. The parents of the kids there are people I went to highschool with. Everybody knows everybody. One of the moms that works there I’ve known my whole life, and she sometimes sends me photos of Axl during the day. It is such a stark difference from his last school in MA, where everyone was a stranger. Even on the days where drop off is tough and he doesn’t want me to leave, I know he will be loved and supported and cared for all day and I trust the team there immensely. He’s taken to starting at a brand new school so much better than I ever would have imagined. He is happy and adventurous and brave. He started soccer at the rec park. He goes on adventures with his great-grandparents and his great-Aunt Darri and his grandma “Kiwi” (my mom). There are dogs to visit and parks to play in and goats to feed and he loves it all. After a week in our new home, he said (completely unprompted) “mommy, this feels like my home.”

Ford is 7 months old now and so happy and strong. It was like he woke up at 6 months old and decided he finally didn’t mind being a baby. After months of crying endlessly and needing full attention at all times, once he could sit up on his own and reliably pick up his own toys everything got so much better. He is crawling and pulling up on things and climbing all over. He is almost always beaming with a big, drooly, toothless smile. He says “dada” over and over and over again all day. We watch videos of Pete and point out his photos so that he knows what that word means. He’s started solid foods and has already graduated to cheerios and bits of real food. He sleeps through the night and finally takes decent naps during the day. He adores his big brother and looks exactly like Pete. It’s uncanny. 

As for me, it’s been rough but I’m still here. I’m so grateful for the life we’ve found here, that we are tending to and helping grow. I was able to keep my job with J.P. Licks, so I’m still doing customer service from afar and am able to keep close contact with my work family, who also knew and worked with Pete for 18 years. I cherish my relationships with them and that connection to my husband. I haven’t started therapy yet, but I did start an anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety medication. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I fought it for months and was convinced I didn’t need it; I’m grieving, not depressed. I need to heal, not numb my emotions. But now I’m able to sleep, and my incessant black hole thoughts have calmed. The endless weepiness has subsided so I can actually process my thoughts and feelings now instead of dissolving. It’s been good for me. 

I started the process of selling the house. It will be on the market in just a few days. Soon, I’ll have to return and pack up and say goodbye for good, but I’ll be so relieved to finally have all the relics of my old life with me. It’s comforting to know that all the things Pete built and made with his own hands will be with us in our next home. It was our first home together, which has now held both the best and worst days of our lives. This process has been incredibly bittersweet. He loved that house. He adored his garden and took such pride in keeping the yard and landscaping in impeccable shape. Every piece of that house had a little Pete in it and I just hope we’re able to take that feeling with us to our next home. 

I’ve decided to start massage school in the fall after the opportunity fell at my feet. It felt like a sign. I need something for me, something fresh to be passionate about. Something that will keep me working towards a goal and also will help support my family and fulfill me as a person. While I’m on my own healing journey, I’d like to be able to heal others, too. I’m writing every day, hoping to someday share all the things I’ve written through the pain of the last 5 months. I can’t change what happened, and the way I see it, either good or bad can come from it. I have to choose the good. I have to keep planting seeds where there is only barren dirt. I have to keep the faith that beautiful things grow from painful wreckage all the time. 

I hate doing this life without Pete. Most days, I still cry over how unfair this all is, especially for my kids. I still catch myself staring at the wall in disbelief. I still see the day he died on repeat in my head when I’m trying to sleep and have to take a sleeping pill to make it stop. But if I close my eyes and look at the whole picture, I can sometimes see this all as one final gift from Pete. His love language was acts of service, he delighted in taking care of us, and somehow he still is. We’re still eating groceries he bought. I have a freezer full of vegetables he grew and preserved from his garden. I was able to return to my hometown and my roots and am able to spend invaluable time with my family. My kids are able to be surrounded by people who love them. They get more time outside, more adventures. Even without life insurance, between the house and social security and his 401k, when added to my own paycheck, we’re somehow going to be ok financially. I’m back driving again after over a decade of avoiding being behind the wheel. Last summer, Pete had shopped for and helped us buy a reliable and fairly new car that keeps us safe and takes us where we need to go. He’s not here physically, but he’s still in absolutely everything we do. His influence and touch is everywhere. 

I’ll never understand why this happened and neither will my kids. But I will spend every day living it like it’s my last. That’s what Pete and I did, and it brought my great peace after he died. At least we only ever spoke with love to each other. At least we always said I love you, always kissed goodnight, always said thank you. Even though we never went on a honeymoon or got to go on vacation just us, we treated every day like it was vacation. Being home together with our kids was our vacation. And I know that the pain of losing him means I was madly in love with him and our life. Losing is the risk we take when we love. And it’s worth every second of the pain once you’ve experienced that level of love. I’ll gladly suffer from grief the rest of my life if it means I got to live my dream life for a little while. 

On our bedroom wall, we had a giant painted quote on reclaimed wood that said “And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you.” I still feel that way. I’d choose this fate again and again and again just to have it. I’d have chosen it even if the moment I met Pete, I somehow knew that one day he would unexpectedly die. Even if I knew I was going to lose him, I’d have chosen him. I loved him with my whole heart and he loved me with all of his. What an absolute gift. What a magical season of life we got to spend together. It’s hard to be sad sometimes when I’m so full of gratitude for what we had, and for what we have now. We wouldn’t have any of it without Pete. 

I have written every day since he died. I have thousands of words written, trying to capture what each of these days have been like. I feel a calling to share them, even if many of them are painful and vulnerable and maybe tough for other people to read. I’ll probably be posting snippets of those here and there, and moving forward I’ll be blogging. I need connection right now, more than ever, and to connect I have to share. This is me ripping the bandaid off. I’ve been living in my head and swimming in my own thoughts these last 5 months but I think I’m finally ready to emerge and engage, and I have to start somewhere. So here we go. If you’re reading this, thank you for being a part of this journey.