In those early days of Luca’s death, I’d often wake TJ up with my sobs at night. It felt pointless; it was unavoidable. Keep crying—for what?
Luca is dead.
I’d watched the nurse leave our hospital room with him. I don’t remember what she looked like. I can’t imagine this is the kind of thing she thought she’d be doing when she decided to be a labor and delivery nurse. A version of the grim reaper. A Pied Piper who takes the children away.
I watched TJ hand Luca to her. A terrible transaction: here is my child, we leave with grief.
And then we were alone.
Surely, I’d never be hungry again. Surely, I’d never make plans. Who cares. Except I kept crying; obviously, caring. People sent so much food. Isn’t that lovely?
One friend sent a meal that a man on a bike delivered. I’ll never forget. The concierge told us we needed to pick up a delivery downstairs. I arrived at the front desk with my pop and found a delivery man was waiting, having pedaled on his bike through the kind of rainstorm that motivated Noah to build an ark.
The poor man was standing, our food in hand, just soaked. My pop, making conversation, asked a horribly obvious question: Are you wet? The man just stared. A puddle had formed under him while he waited to deliver his goods. He could only have been more wet had he been, at that moment, swimming in the ocean itself, fully submerged. My pop didn’t wait for an answer and thanked him instead. It was clear the delivery man was wet. He didn’t need to ask. My sister and I still laugh about this today.
Also, I make plans. I’m hungry as I write this down. While TJ sleeps next to me, I silently cry for Luca. I also practice seeing my daughter’s faces while they sleep in their own beds. I think about their dark hair, their dark eyes, how Noa asks me if Willa is my most inappropriate child.
This—life—is a tapestry—and grief does not ruin the picture. I thought it did, was sure it had to. I was wrong. Thank God I was wrong.