That feeling you get in your gills when you’re watching something sad on TV… it feels as though your veins are too big for your throat and the back of your eyes are burning and the too big veins are pushing all the water in your body out of your eyes and onto your face. That feeling is constant. I am always on the verge of crying. I am always missing my son. It never stops. No matter where I am or what I’m doing. Even in the middle of a laugh.
It’s obscure. And surreal. I live two lives. I am two people. One of me never changes.
I don’t walk past his room without looking at his bouncer or his changing pad or the clothes that he died in still strewn across his changing table. I don’t walk into our room, where his cot still stands, without glancing at the dummy he was sucking on or the hat he was wearing the night before he died. I don’t bath without hearing the creaks I am sure are his way of telling me he’s around.
Anybody who sees me would think I was talking to myself as I wander through our home. And sometimes I am. But most times I’m talking to him. I acknowledge the noises. I acknowledge the creases in his linen set that weren’t there yesterday.
“I hear you.”
I say this often.
Yesterday after work, I was home before his dad again and I was talking to no-one and everyone at the same time. At one point I said: “As the days go by, and Hudson still doesn’t come to me, it becomes more and more clear to me that he’s just gone. That there’s nothing after death. That death is the final thing. And my son is lost to me forever. And I’ll never see him again.”
And then, last night, for the first time since he died, I dreamt about him. And my dream was full to the brim of him. He was everywhere I looked (mainly because, I’m sure, I didn’t want to take my eyes from him in case he disappeared as things do in dreams), he filled my scope of vision. His nose. His eyes. His little arms and feet.
Right now, I know this was his way of telling me: “No, mom. Death is not the final thing. I am here. I am everywhere. I am still love. I am still your sun. And I will always be your son.”