It’s almost amazing to me, that after almost six years, I can still vividly imagine those moments back in March of 2004 when my world turned on it’s ear and the new “me” was born. You would think, wrongly perhaps, that such things would dull and fade with time. That new experiences, new joys, new heartaches and memories aplenty would blunt the sharp agony that is losing a child.
You would be wrong, of course.
Maybe it’s different, because I wasn’t blogging back then. I was just keeping a handwritten journal. But there is no community attached to a handwritten journal. And somehow, not having the acknowledgment, makes it almost feel like it happened even longer ago than it did. Maybe because it feels like I have been blogging for forever and a day. And I am sometimes left to wonder if the people who know me now, who didn’t know me then, know just what it was like. If they can appreciate how that moment changed me. If they understand that I feel, every single day, just what I lost.
I was reading, just today, about another blogger who just had the bottom fall out from underneath her. She said:
If I started panicking, it was more of a numb kind, not like the adrenaline that pumps through your body as you narrowly avoid a car accident. It was just, well, like watching yourself in a dream.
And, oh my stars, reading that brought it all back. Because that is EXACTLY what it feels like. Over the years, you become used to the sensation of panic being one of a heart racing (and mine was, but it was almost as though I couldn’t feel that), a hysterical giggle rising in your throat, a call to action. And shocking loss like this, well, it causes you to react so very differently. Because instead of speeding up, everything slows down. You become aware of yourself in a third-person sort of way, as if you were floating over your body, looking down from the ceiling. You hear your own voice and don’t recognize it. Your mind, not wanting to comprehend what is happening, starts to drift backwards. It’s surreal. It’s agony.
Unlike Eve, I had a feeling as soon as they had a hard time finding the heartbeat. While I didn’t technically have a grasp on just what it was I truly feared, I had that fear. I had that fear all the way to the hospital, actually, as the niggling voice asked ever so quietly, “When did you last feel him move?” Even so, fear and suspicion doesn’t cover the shock. And the numbness. And the agony that settles into your bones.
That agony never really leaves you. Even six years later, I can still recall it and feel it and burn with it at a moment’s notice.
Because once the bottom falls out, it never really rights itself again. You just define a “new normal”. And you move forward the best you.
Jackson’s birthday is strange this year. It’s not like the previous years have been. For one thing, I feel so busy. Not quite too busy to remember, but too busy to fixate, that’s for sure. Evie’s birthday had us all in an uproar, as did our trip to Elko. Today, consequently, is all about getting back to real life. Harry going back to school, Kile going back to work, me and the little ones getting back to our routine.
I would have liked to have visited the cemetary today, but I don’t think I’ll be able to manage. Sure, I could pack up the kids and drive down to get Kile and we could all go over. But I don’t want to overextend myself either and I’ll have to be packing them up tomorrow to take them (by myself!) to Evie’s pediatrician appointment. But Kile has said that he will visit and bring him some flowers.
This morning, when I reminded Harry whose birthday it was today and how old he would have been, he replied, “He could have been my friend. We could have played together.” Yep, he sure could. Harry and Jackson would have been much closer in age and I think they would have had a great time together. As much fun as he has with Liam, I think Harry would have had a buddy in Jackson. I’m sorry he never got that chance.
I don’t have much to say this year. I don’t know what to say. The fact that it has been five years blows me away. Jack would have been going to kindergarten this summer. He wouldn’t have been a baby anymore. He would have been a full-fledged little boy. Would he have been ornery like Liam? Calm like Harry and Evie? Would he have been into trucks and trains or superheros and video games? So many unanswered questions.
On this, the fifth anniversary of his birth and death, I wanted to highlight all the posts I have written for Jackson over the years. I’ll start with last year and work backwards:
Each post, each year, is a snapshot in time. How we were grieving, how we were living with Jackson, how we were coping and moving forward and living our lives. I didn’t write a letter this year. Maybe I will and just tuck it back somewhere that only I can see it. Either way, he will be remembered. Not a year, not a day, will go by without him being remembered.
Happy Birthday, Jackson.
So I got to do something that all stay at home mom’s of little children DREAM of doing the other night. I got to leave the house and meet friends for dinner and a movie. WITHOUT KIDS. It was a miracle. It was hard, to pull away and know that my little 2 month old suck-fiend is in there along with my nearly two year old and my 8 year old and MY POOR HUSBAND. Still, push came to shove and I put it out of my mind as best I could and I had a GREAT time. I’m so glad that I went.
We had burritos at a taco place near the theater and went to see (dun dun dun!) “Sex and the City”. I was never big into the series, as we never had HBO, but familiar enough with the stories and characters to care. And it really was a pretty good movie. A LOT of boobies to be seen (along with *cough* some other parts too), but also some good romantic payoff too. I walked away feeling GOOD.
But at one part of the movie, Carrie was feeling a mite blue, and when talking to her friends, mentioned that the tragedy that befell her wasn’t entirely surprising. She had some warning signs. But she didn’t want to “speak them aloud“. And in that moment, I totally knew what she was talking about.
Four years ago, right before we lost Jackson, I had some warning signs. It was a busy weekend at our place, but on Sunday night, I lay in bed wondering when I’d last felt movement. I couldn’t quite remember. But I didn’t want to think about the worst possible scenario. I didn’t want to vocalize my fears. Saying them aloud would make them more real and I wanted anything but for them to be real. So I didn’t say anything to Kile about the lack of movement. I didn’t mention it to a soul. I put it out of my mind and it was alarmingly easy to do so.
There’s a little shame in admitting that.
Even though I know that by the time I noticed there was no movement that it was probably already too late. Still. There is guilt.
This is why, when I went into labor, I had the voice in my head saying, “I sure hope that baby is still alive in there. Maybe he’s not.” I even “joked” to Kile about it. Breezily enough that he didn’t even pick up on the fearful undertones. That is why he was blindsided by the news that Jackson was gone… and I was not. I mean, I was, but I wasn’t.
What would have changed had I spoken my fears out loud? Anything? I doubt it. I’ll never know though. Will I?
Dear Jackson,
This has been a strange week. Shoot, it’s been a strange MONTH. For one thing, there’s been peace between myself and the month of March. That’s definitely new. I’ve been able to put aside past differences and hurts and see the beauty in this month. The buds of life growing on the trees, the days that struggle to be warmer than the days before it (even though they’re not always successful), the different shade of blue the sky is taking on during those rare, clear days. I’ve paid extra attention to the mercies in this month. There’ve been several, and not just ones concerning me.
But this week takes the cake. This is a week I normally dread all year long. Something to survive, get through, move past. “Another birthday down,” I’ll say to myself. No celebrations, though. Only remembrance. This year, however, there has been celebration. And this has been a week that has been greatly anticipated. This week saw your baby sister come into the world.
Wrapped around her little finger already
She looks like you. I know it sounds improbable, but she does. Even your dad is skeptical. He agrees that her hair resembles yours, in that it looks more like yours did than any of the other boys’ hair. But he thinks the similarities end there. I think he thinks that I’m reading too much into it. I don’t think so. I was holding her last night, up against my chest after we’d had yet another successful breastfeeding session and I swear to you, in that moment her face looked just like yours. Her mouth, my mouth, looked just like yours. The set of her eyes, closed as they were, just like yours. The shape of her nose and curve of her cheeks… the retreating chin that it seems all newborns have…
Maybe she doesn’t look exactly like you, but it’s close enough in my book.
It’s strange being back in this hospital, four years later. So many things have changed here since then. Then again, a lot of things are the same. This room we’re in right now is the ghost of the room we stayed in after you were born. Not the same. But close enough. It makes me think of you, a lot. My mind is filled with the memories of you, of that awful day four years ago and of the total redemption we have found here this year. It’s nothing short of a miracle.
The corny side of me wonders if you looked after your baby sister in heaven, if you held her little hand and ushered her down here and into our arms yourself. If your soul kissed hers before sending her to the family you never got to enjoy. It’s corny, I tried to warn you. But I have had that thought.
Your dad and brothers and grandparents are going to visit your spot at the cemetery today. Part of me wishes I could be there but part of me is glad I won’t be. You’re not there anymore than you’re here, in fact, you’re probably just as much here as you are there. And we have no marker for you there yet, something that makes me sad every time we visit. It’s not that we don’t love you. Please know that. I will change that, eventually. They’ll bring you some flowers, stand over your spot and think about what could have been. Wish you a happy birthday (and a happy Easter too!). I suppose I can do the same (well, minus the flowers) here at the hospital, can’t I?
Thank you for touching our lives. I do wish what your four year old self would have been like today. Would you have been thrilled to share your big birthday with Easter? Would you have competed with Harry to see who could find the most hidden eggs (and gotten frustrated, likely, when Harry found more)? Would you have argued the case for eating your chocolate bunny before church, even though it would make you wild? Would you have insisted we have birthday cake for desert after our ham dinner and that we open presents as soon as possible? Things to think about.
It’s a special day. It’s a special year. You were our special boy. We miss you, love you. We won’t ever forget you. I’ll leave you now, with the song that we always think of as being “yours”.
Love,
Your mama
Into the West - Annie Lennox [5:48m]: This is March, after all, and even though the olive branch has been extended, I feel it’s perhaps more important than ever to discuss Jackson, my feelings about him, about losing him, about how he has effected me and how I see his baby sister in him. So you’ll need to bear with me. This month is as much his as anything else, as far as I see it.
I read a post on Loralee’s blog yesterday about how she feels changed after losing her son. It struck a chord with me, because I feel the same. But in a slightly different way. I know I’ve been changed since losing Jackson. And I’m sure it wasn’t just him (though he’s the largest part of it); the infertility and the miscarriage have also contributed. I’m not the same person I was before this all “went down”. Kile isn’t the same. We aren’t the same family together that we were, either.
For the most part, I think those changes have been for the better. Perhaps it’s finding the silver lining in the cloud of gray? Seriously though, I am glad for some of these changes, if not for the method of attaining them. Of course, I would rather have kept Jackson with me, would have spared my family the heartache of years of infertility and loss. But since we did have to go through all that, it’s rather nice that we ended up where we are because of it, no?
The biggest change is perspective. My perspective on things has changed. I’m much more able to realize when something is worthy of my worrying than before. I’m not as likely to worry about silly things that don’t really matter. Which doesn’t mean that I don’t worry about them. But it’s much easier now to take a step back and go, “Woah, wait a minute. What’s the big deal here?” And nine times out of ten, that strategy works. As long as I’m able to step back for a moment and find my perspective, things that would have driven me nuts before don’t have the same power. (Of course, I don’t think this applies to pregnancy hormones and nesting instincts as those are neurotic tendances that will transcend even the most calmest of perspectives.)
I feel older. I feel like I’ve “been through it”. I feel like I’m a more patient mother now. I don’t sweat the small stuff with Liam that I would have with Harry (had he done half the stuff Liam does, which he didn’t). I find the joy in the small moments so much more now than I did before. Getting up in the night to comfort a scared or sick baby is almost a JOY (says the woman who’s child pretty much sleeps through the night every night). The times I’ve gotten up with him, gone into his room and rocked him in the moonlight are treasured memories. I would know, each time, how lucky I was to have that baby to rock back and forth in my arms.
I don’t want to make this sound like I never get frustrated with my children. Of course I do! They’re children, after all, and I’m fairly certain their primary goal in life at the moment is to frustrate their parents. But I think I deal with it better than I used to. (Ask me again when they’re teenagers.) There is a lot more patience there. A lot more perspective.
And yes, there is a lot more sensitivity there, a lot more sadness in certain circumstances and more being emotional. I don’t think those are necessarily bad things, though. See, there’s that silver lining again!
P.S. Thanks for all your response on my last post about birth control. Definitely go vote on my choices if you haven’t already! I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear so many cries of “Vasectomy!”. For the record, it’s an option that isn’t off the books. In fact, if you ask Kile he’s likely to say I should get the tubal and then he’ll get a vasectomy later on. The reason I didn’t list it in my choices is because the two main choices are going to be easy to achieve (particularly the tubal, as I will already be there on the table, all cut open and stuff). You know, fyi. Go vote!
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