I’ve cried more in the last 12 weeks than I think I’ve cried in the rest of my life, combined.
Before Hudson was born, I’d seen my husband cry three times: on our wedding day, when his Grandma Ruth died, and when I surprised him on his birthday with tickets to see the Red Sox play at Fenway.
Now I’ve seen him cry too many times to count, and I hate it.
When he cries, I cry.
Because if the Big Guy is crying, you know it’s REALLY bad.
I have a picture of me from highschool that I am embarrassed by. We were on our Senior Class trip to Fort Flagler, and I had run for Senior Class Photographer and lost. The night the votes were revealed, I just laid in my bunk in the barracks and cried my face off. I borrowed (without asking) my friend’s cell phone and called my mom and wept and sobbed. I was humiliated and frustrated and angry and hurt, this picture I’d painted for myself of my senior year had just been crushed and I cried myself to sleep. The picture was taken the next morning, and it is of me and my ThenBestFriend who had run for (and won) Senior Class President. My face is like the Stay Puft Marshmallow man, my eyelids are so swollen that you can hardly see eyeball.
I am mortified that this moment in my life is captured in a picture. I mean, that’s the hardest I’d ever cried.
Flash forward 12 years and some change, and I’ve cried that hard like, a lot since Hudson died. The puffy eyelid look is one I’ve learned to own, my morning badge of honor after a hard fought night of stifled sobs.
There are days when I call my mom to weep and sob. I’m humiliated and frustrated and angry and hurt. This picture we had painted of our life with Baby Dub has just been crushed.
This is a million times worse than losing Senior Class Photographer.
Sometimes I can cry about Hudson and it feels really good. And sometimes I cry about Hudson and it feels like suffocating. But the body-wracking sobfests are becoming less frequent, and when they do come, they’re less intense. Sometimes I’ll try to make myself cry, to no avail. And sometimes the most surprising things will make my eyes well up with tears and the next thing I know I’m holding the blow dryer and doubled over in tears and I’m not sure exactly how long it has been since I was having a normal morning.
You get used to crying. And then after a while, you get used to not crying as much. And then you have more non-cry days than cry days, and you secretly high five yourself because this is progress.
But then your husband cries when reading one of your Hudson posts, and that makes you cry, and then you write a post about crying.