The last time I was off work on a Thursday… I went into work, decided I didn’t want to be there and left. To go shopping.
Today, I am home. Booked off with bronchitis (which is Latin for “No, your colleagues do not need to hear or see the unnatural phenom’s you keep coughing up and blowing out so stay home til that shit stops”) and for some reason I remembered the day before Hudson died upon waking this morning. It too was a Thursday.
I’d been back at work for around a week and a half and the Wednesday before we’d had a tough team meeting. Some of you will remember one of my last pre-death posts where I moaned about how life had changed at work. My team has dissintegrated, I was surrounded by new and at the time very threatening faces and during this meeting it was indicated by one team member (and, very glaringly not argued by the others) that things had become hugely better since I’d left the team to go on maternity leave.
I felt alone, I felt as though noone was willing to stand up for me and I didn’t want to be there anymore. I’d gone home and cried. Holding my baby, who had less than two days left on earth, I’d cried about work. And the next day, instead of leaving the office, going home and holding my child I went to the shops. Nick had bought me a nomination bracelet with the word “Turk” embedded in it and I’d gone out to buy the “ish” which would finalise Hudson’s middle name. None of my work clothes fit me so I’d bought a pair of pants. And when I got home, I left Hudson in the hands of his nanny only telling her to leave a few hours later.
The next day my son was gone.
Nothing today matters. Nothing like that makes me cry. Even when it seems something else is making me cry, it’s always Hudson. I am easily overwhelmed and, instead of saying what it is, I’ll blame other things but it’s always this grief.
I saw a doctor the day before yesterday for this bronchitis thing. She reckons I have post traumatic stress disorder. She says this is probably what’s causing the chest pains, the back pains, the lack of ability to retain things, the pins and needles and the light headedness and let’s not even begin talking about the new and consistent fear of death. She’s asked me to start taking long term anti-depressants and she’s given me the number of a psychologist she thinks can help me. She says grief is a process and I’m stuck somewhere near depression and anger. She says speaking to someone will nudge me along.
I don’t want to take long term anti-depressants. I believe in science but to depend on something to get through your day seems like a cop out. And I’m not sure I’m ready to be nudged along. Will I stop mourning my son? Will I laugh out loud and not feel guilty about it? Will I become disloyal?
Is not being miserable what is right? And, in the same breath, is being miserable even the right way to honour him?
My blog has started worrying some people. Other people get me and they know where I am and what I’m saying but this, my therapy, has become a bit much for some people to bear. I’m not sure I care about some people. But I do care about doing right by the memory of my son.
I don’t think he came here only to go leaving a shell of a person behind. I don’t think his was a destructive soul nor journey. And I’m not sure I can be the legacy he deserves without the help that’s been suggested.
To the people who are concerned. I’m sorry. When I write here it is to express feelings I cannot express verbally. I’m a writer. I’m not a speaker nor a martyr and do not want to flounce my grief in front of you – even though at times I cannot avoid it. I’ve realised I’m the type of person who would rather publicly address your issues than speak about mine and I’m okay with that. Now it’s time – you’ve got to become okay with that too.
And to everyone else, if this post doesn’t remind you of how short life is and how the most important people in life can disappear without warning, I’m sorry for you. Remember, every last second, could be the last second. Make what you do with your time count for something. Cuddle your babies. Hug your loved ones.
It’s what I should’ve done that Thursday afternoon, all afternoon. And it’s all I’ll ever want to be able to do every day of my life until I, too, become a sad story someone tells in a blog of their very own.