the last couple weeks have been... a lot

I listed the house for sale, accepted an offer, and signed a purchase and sale agreement pretty quickly. Axl graduated preschool, and I practically disassociated for the entire ceremony so I didn’t burst into tears about how you were supposed to be there. All the other kids had two parents to give flowers to, pose in pictures with, to watch them perform. My whole family came, which I am so thankful for, but like with all things… the void in the shape of you simply can’t be filled with anyone else. But everyone does their best to try, which I appreciate.

We got a package in the mail from Axl’s old preschool. The one we stressed and hemmed and hawed over whether we should send him to, with covid numbers on the rise again and me 8 months pregnant with no way to go pick him up while you were at work. I cried nightly over what decision we should make. Then, when we decided to send him, drop-offs were terrible and difficult and all three of us cried after separating for weeks. He would chase our car around the block, tracing the playground fence as we drove away. I interviewed and hired babysitters to help me with pick-ups. And then, just as he got settled and comfortable with both becoming a big brother and also starting school for the first time in his four and a half years of life, you died.

I knew his old teacher was sending him a copy of their preschool yearbook and that his photo would be included. We’ve been in touch here and there; since you were the one who dropped him off every morning, his teachers were quite fond of you and took the news of your passing pretty hard. They like to check in. But what I was not expecting, was the special book his classmates made him where they each drew him a picture and wrote a note about what they miss and love about him. The grief welled inside of me like a shaken soda, and out it poured. The reality of everything our sweet boy has been through and lost in the past 6 months… it hit me like a ton of bricks. It broke my heart. He has gained so, so much from this move, too, but his roots were embedded somewhere else completely before being totally uprooted.

As I was sobbing on the kitchen floor, I reached back into the envelope and discovered something else that gutted me: a heart-shaped, homemade paper pocket filled with Valentines from his classmates. Cards he never got to get. We never got to shop for Valentine’s Day cards. He didn’t even know what they were. We spent Valentine’s Day at home, just me and the boys, as I tried to forget about the holiday completely. He was between schools and we were just getting settled in Vermont. And he should have been at school with his friends exchanging Valentines. Just another reminder of what used to be, like an old relic reminding me we had a past. You and I would have excitedly read through each Valentine with him when he got home from school. We’d have bought him a cute little gift bag of candy. You and I would’ve disregarded the holiday completely for each other, but we would’ve at least made our goodbye and goodnight kisses a little longer than usual, and tell each other “Happy Love Day.”

Something about opening that package made me fall apart. And I’d been doing so well through all these milestones keeping my house of cards steady. And then it toppled.

I’m okay, I’m just… feeling a little tender. Fragile. I’ve mostly been a warrior through this whole thing, but sometimes all my armor just falls off. It’s like I’m reduced to the simplest form of these raw emotions, of this grief. Everything hurts a little more. And I do my best not to put up any walls, not to run from the pain, because I truly believe that the only way out is through. Avoiding it all does me no favors. And Father’s Day coming up this weekend just exhausts me. I’m already aching for you so much, and knowing there is a day meant to celebrate the best parts of you is killing me. It feels harder than your birthday was, and it was all fresher then. But your role as a father was something else. The fact you aren’t here to father these boys for the rest of their lives is the biggest tragedy of all. Like with all the other hard days, I’ll keep my chin up and celebrate and honor you. We will make it through and make the day special and good like we always do. But I know that the sting of missing you will be more present than ever.

Tonight I watched my favorite videos of you. I miss your face. Your voice. Your laugh.

All the videos I have of you feature you being an absolutely stellar father. I’m so glad the boys will have that visual proof of the kind of father you were. The absolute light in your eyes when you were playing with your boys, with absolutely no trace of boredom or annoyance or unhappiness… it’s one of the most special things I’ve ever had the honor to observe. You always said that you felt like I was the model parent and you were only following my lead, that you learned everything you knew about parenting from watching me, but I was the one in awe of you. I was the one who had things to learn. You were more patient, more adventurous, more ambitious. You were more fun. You were our fearless leader. And it sucks so much having you gone. I do my best to focus on how lucky I was to have you, how blessed our boys were to have come from you, how all three of us are better people having had you in our lives. But sometimes it all just plain sucks and pretending it doesn’t is impossible.

I had a dream with you in it, which isn’t unusual, but this was the first time I wasn’t aware it was a dream and I didn’t know you were dead. When I see you in dreams, I typically cling to you. I somehow subconsciously know that this glimpse of you is special and fleeting, so I savor it. But this time, it was just an average day and you were just coming through my door like everything was normal and my brain didn’t do anything to reason with that. So I woke up feeling like you’d just been violently ripped from my grasp; I didn’t get to say goodbye, and I had to have the slow realization I was back in reality where you were dead. It was absolutely awful. 

I know we’re headed someplace great, but right now the pain over what we’ve lost is loud.