Grief and Fear

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear”. – C.S. Lewis

I spent the first few weeks after Jackson died in what can only be described as fear. 

From the moment that this nightmare became our reality, it was pure fear. Utter horror and wild, sheer panic. Our visceral animal screams from that morning still haunt me. The moment I turned over his body still haunts me. The fear was not contained to the worst day of my life, it continued to show up, days and weeks later. Snapshots from that morning intruded on my mind, showing up often and unpredictably without invitation, filling my entire body with the same horror as if it was happening again in that moment.

Over time, the memories from that morning decreased in frequency and intensity, and memories of Jackson, alive and well, started to take their place. Which introduced just a different chapter of fear. Reminders like his smiling face in a photo (and knowing he will never smile again), seeing his favorite toys (and knowing he will never ride his horsey again), seeing his favorite books (and knowing he will never make that silly face during Llama Llama Red Pajama again), and eating his favorite foods (and feeling nauseous realizing we will never share a bowl of yogurt and granola and raspberries again) all contributed to a growing sense of fear that I could not survive this new life I didn’t ask for. The fear was everywhere, intense, and growing each day. 

Fear that we couldn’t survive
Fear that we had to survive
Fear of shattering the lives of each family member and friend
Fear of the loneliness from being shattered harder and differently than anyone else
Fear of imploding with grief if I heard his voice
Fear that I’d forget the sound of his voice  
Fear of the consequences on our mental health
Fear of the repercussions on our marriage
Fear of having another child and it happening again
Fear of fearing so much that we’d never try again

I became fixated on “getting over” my grief, shedding the fear, moving on with my life. Getting (quickly) to some place where remembering Jackson brings happiness and joy alone. Having never truly grieved before, I thought this was the goal. I so naively thought this was even possible. 

But grief is not something to “get over”, nor is it something I want to get over. I have learned that grief and love are one and the same – and feelings of loss and joy are two sides of the same grief-as-love coin. Although we can certainly learn to cope with our grief, and therefore experience less suffering as we grieve, grief and love themselves are forever. 

Fear of grief

I learned that my fear of grief was at the root of so much of my suffering. My fear of remembering him – seeing his face, hearing his voice, smelling his scent – was compounding my already unimaginable loss. Jackson was gone and I was refusing to let myself remember when he was alive. 

It was time to face my grief, allow my grief, give in to my grief and trust (with all fingers crossed) that I’d make it out alive. 

I started out slow. I sat in silence and attended to my physical sensations. Stomach churning, tight chest, stingy throat, wet face. I noticed massive urges to escape – both my grief and my life. At first this sent me into some deep, dark (yet clear and illuminating?) places. I lost my son. He was not coming back. Life is fragile. Life is pain. Control is an illusion. Love is risky. Love is worth it. This could happen again. Anyone I love could die today. 

I watched the emotion waves rise and fall, watching the age-old platitude that “what goes up must come down” come true before my eyes. And sure enough, my distress did not last forever in a constant, steady state. In fact, allowing my grief freed me up to experience other things in other moments. Over time, I came to experience joy, amusement, or even just contentment, and even thoughts like “This is going to be ok.” 

And it was in those “This is going to be ok” moments that I noticed yet another, different chapter of fear. Fear that I could no longer access my grief, or that it was somehow diminishing. 

“Change is the only constant”

What I’ve learned is that so much of my misery these past few weeks has been tied up in fretting over where I wasn’t. When I was in the throes of pain, I feared I’d never get out. When I was in a moment of joy or contentment, I feared I’d lost contact with my sadness. I’ve since learned to trust my grief; stop worrying so much about where I’m not and just be where I am. I now lean on my intuition that grief will inevitably and reliably ebb and flow, and that I can count on being back in my sadness or joy again, in time. 

My advisor told me, “It makes sense that it’s hard to focus on Wednesday mornings because it reminds you of the morning Jackson died. And one day there will come a Wednesday morning when you don’t think of Jackson, and that will make you sad, too”. Exactly; this is at the heart of the struggle. Wanting to know there will be better days, while simultaneously feeling afraid of them. Wanting to feel relief of pain, while holding on to the love that’s tied up with the pain. As my friend Pete said, there is nothing more dialectical than grief. He said, “To feel the black hole inside of you, as if you’re going to collapse into yourself, while at the same time your heart is about to explode with love and sorrow; the smiles and laughs through wretches and tears; the mind that knows Jackson is gone but the body that insists otherwise”. These are the contradictions, and truths, about grief. 

I’ve learned to let myself open Jackson’s bedroom door on some days, so I can see his horsey and bookcase and toys. And to let myself close the door other days, when it’s too stinging to walk by and I need to give myself a break. And that I can trust my intuition about what I need on any given day, or in a particular moment. And that the range of complex emotions are still out there, or better said inside me, waiting to be expressed at another time. And that feeling any one way is not negating the validity and possibility of other feelings. 

I’ve basically learned the very thing everyone tried so hard to tell me those first few weeks – that I won’t feel this way – or any one way – forever. Now I can finally believe what I struggled to believe for so long: that emotions aren’t permanent, and that change is the only constant. 

I’ve learned that attending to my grief has settled my stomach, softened the tightness in my chest, and giving me confidence to visit with my sweet Jackson. It still hurts like hell, but fear has certainly dissipated. And my confidence has slowly built back up as I’ve allowed my fierce mama love to warm my body and fill the emptiness in my chest. Now, I can and do smile when I think of Jackson, but I’ve let go of insisting on the joy alone. Letting in the pain has freed me up to feel the joy, as long as I let them coexist.

A Day in the Life of My Grief

I wake up and immediately miss Jackson.

There is a hollow, empty ache in my chest, where my heart used to live.

I ask Bryan if we can watch some Jackson videos and we watch many. We cry so much. We smile in awe at his perfection. No sound sweeter than his voice, nothing sweeter than his mannerisms. I watch my previous self so blissfully enjoying hugs and laughs. Then I watch myself watching myself, realizing I will never experience such naive, carefree, happy parenthood again.

I finish watching videos with a less-empty hole in my chest. At the same time full of love, but also full of loss. I am both smiling and my face is so wet with tears. This is the nature of my grief, so simultaneously fraught with loss and shock and sadness and fear – and also deeply connected to the fiercest mama love that is rooted in every memory and fiber of my being.

Time to get ready for the day and, like every morning, painfully notice the absence of our familiar rituals. No morning cuddles still in his PJs, no requests for mama milk, no playing “Jackson sleepy”, no smelling his hair and rubbing his arms and legs. I make a motion to stand but the weight of my entire body prevents me, as if saying “Do you really want to face this day?”.

I head straight to the shower and notice I am alone. No Jackson turning the corner to come visit Mama in the shower. I see his face, playfully asking to be splashed. I hear his voice “What doing?”. I put on lotion and brush on my foundation. I hear him again. “Jackson want some makeup”. I give him my blush brush and he carefully and gently grazes his face with it. He asks for my mascara and I tell him it’s only for mommies. He asks for my chapstick and insists on holding it. I watch him apply it all around his lips and mouth and chuckle at his imprecision. I give him my headband and tell him he looks beautiful. He looks in the mirror and smiles at his reflection.

I get dressed. I deliberately choose the non-nursing bra, the one I wore almost exclusively for 2 years. As I get ready the silence is so loud, like a trumpet blaring through the house. I put on my clothes and walk downstairs, past his bedroom that sends a familiar waft of “Jackson” that reverberates through my entire body. I turn the corner and face the kitchen, bracing myself for the memory that hits me every morning – seeing him eating toast with cream cheese in his high chair facing Daddy, smiling, head tilted, “Hi mammaaaaa”. I smile and greet him in my mind, “Good morning my sweet boy”.

I gather a small breakfast for myself. Not remotely hungry because every food is laden with Jackson. Oatmeal squares are “Mama’s cereal” and every time I made yogurt and granola he would say “Jackson want some” and he’d fight me for control of the spoon. If I gave him a bite without raspberries (so rude) it was “Boo-berries pleeeease”. And when we finished the bowl, “it’s all gone”.

Time to put on shoes and my body pauses. I remember his love of shoes and how he knew who each shoe in the house belonged to. I see him putting on one of my flats. “Other one?”. I watch him struggle to put on my boots. “Helpy you?” I watch his face light up when I help him zip them up, all the way up his leg, and watch him tromp around delighted with the sound of the heel on the floor. Then I watch him hand us our shoes, like an excited puppy eager to go on a walk. “See you later!”

I walk down to the car, and notice the light weight of my bag on my shoulder. No additional toddler backpack packed with extra undies and wet bags, no green and grey toddler jacket, and no Jackson on my hip. I traverse the quick but seemingly long walk through memories in the yard, and unlock the car door. There is a noticeable quickness which I get into the car. No demands to hold the keys, no struggle to get in the car seat, “Jackson do it; Jackson all by self”, “Jackson click”. I turn on the car. No feeling late pulling out of the driveway and no Casper Babypants song blaring through the speaker. I instinctively check the rear-view mirror only to find the car seat missing. My Jackson, missing.

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It’s 5pm and my heart flutters with excitement, which is almost simultaneously replaced with a deep, heavy sadness. I slowly, reluctantly, gather my things and head down 15th Avenue toward the car. I walk down that same path towards the day care, only now less giddily.

I get to Pacific Ave. and make a hard right, instead of walking straight into Portage Bay where, in some other universe, I imagine Jackson playing with his friends, finishing his favorite snack of cheesy crackers, or sitting on the potty with his teacher by his side. I notice myself painfully longing for the moment our eyes meet at the end of a long day, watching his face light up when I tell him that we are going to go home to see Daddy and Tita and Stella, and witnessing his pride as he walks down the stairs all by himself holding on to the toddler railing. I yearn to learn about his day on the daily report – how he slept, what he ate, and what and who he played with. Usually, some variation of playing with Cohen, Willow, Eliana, or Grayson – and any activity involving water, sweeping, or cars. Most of all I miss the elevator ride to the car where he would so enthusiastically shout “OPEN SESAME!”, hand gesture and all, to the slowest elevator in the universe until it opened. Then we would say “up up up up up up” together in progressively higher voice tones until the door opened again. Then we’d look for “Jackson’s car”, a mission he accepted with seriousness and determination, until we found it.

I drive home in silence, missing the chatter and even the requests to “get-a out”. Again, I instinctively check the rear-view mirror only to find my car seat still missing. My Jackson, still missing. I drive through our old neighborhood, past our flower walk roads and familiar streets. I drive by our old house and the park. I drive by the school he was supposed to go to when he started Kindergarten and by the bakery he loved to visit on the weekends for “mo’ bread”. I notice that the bench where we’d sit has been removed and burst into tears. I watch all the parents with babies in their carriers and toddlers in their strollers and feel angry that their children are alive. And then shudder with disgust at my own thought. I notice the rain and all the sirens and wonder how I can simultaneously feel so much anger at how rarely children die (why did the world have to single mine out, then?!) meanwhile so much fear at how common this tragedy is (this will most certainly happen to me again).

I pull up to our house, which looks so sad now in the rain. I turn off the engine and quite literally hear nothing on our already quiet street, only quieter now without Jackson. I open the car door, then open the gate, then open the house door, pulling my self and my body forward through each motion, in shock over how difficult such an easy sequence of events can feel.

Once inside, I hug Bryan and Stella. I feel grateful for their warm bodies and their love. I change into warm clothes and turn on the fireplace. I force myself to walk through the motions of the evening, like a soldier on a treadmill. Painfully aware of the discrepancy between evenings now and evenings past. My body tells me when it’s time for dinner, time for bath time, time for stories, and time for bed. I wonder how I can tell my body what has happened, as it so clearly continues to expect him to be here with constant, relentless reminders of all mealtimes, naptimes, bathtimes lapsed. I wonder how to tell my body to stop making milk, and then even more painfully wonder if it already stopped.

We turn on the TV, or play a board game, or talk about something other than Jackson. Except that everything is a reminder of Jackson. Everything he loved or would come to love, places we went or were hoping to take him, things we taught him or never got to teach him. We occasionally enjoy a moment or laugh at a joke, and yet Jackson’s absence and inability to laugh with us is always just underneath the surface, never forgotten. We say mundane phrases like “be right back”, “oh”, “right there”, “makes me sad”, “no likey” and hear his voice, sending us into waves of love and loss. We pause often.

It’s late evening and I notice myself tip toing around the house, trying not to make the floors creak, only to remember there is no sleeping toddler downstairs. I decide to go to bed, put an end to yet another day. I walk over to the mantel and visit with my son, but with intention this time. I touch his urn with my hand, running my fingers over the small flower grooves of the box, and kiss him goodnight. Then I immerse my face into his blue owl lovey – the only remaining source of his smell – and luxuriate in his scent. I feel tears fall down my face and whisper “Goodnight my sweet boy. Mama loves you so much”.

I turn off the lights and trudge up the stairs. By the time my head hits the pillow I am exhausted. I lay in bed in Bryan’s comforting embrace and, with the permission of my grief who feels properly attended to, fall asleep.