A First Christmas

 

Our Garcia family tree this year, Jackson-sized and with pink lights in memory of Jackson. December 25, 2017.

 

For the last fourteen weeks I have been dreading Christmas day. Just hours after Jackson died, I remember realizing that Christmas was around the corner, and he wouldn’t be here for it. I remember the sensation of actual, stinging pain in my chest. Since then, I have been somewhat bracing myself for what we all expected to be a particularly excruciating day. 

Christmas day and the entire holiday season has been hard without Jackson. But the reality is that every day is hard without Jackson. Every day we wake up missing him, go through our days missing him, go to sleep missing him. Every day we also have “normal” moments and interactions – and every day we also get struck by waves of grief that crash hard. And Christmas day has been no exception. 

Looking around at the dinner table last night, I was struck with an overwhelming gratitude for my family. I think of all the people who wake up and go to bed each night missing their mom, dad, brother, sister, grandparent, friend, spouse. And, although each morning we wake up to the loss of Jackson, each morning we also wake up to the miracle of still having our parents, siblings, grandparents, friends, and each other (and Stella, of course). The only gift of mortality salience (awareness that death is possible and inevitable) is that we are so damn grateful every single day for those who did not die. We simply do not take life for granted any more. 

My heart goes out today to those of you who are missing your moms – especially a couple of women in my grad program who lost them too early. I am sending love to those missing their dads – especially a few of our college friends, a friend from my lab, and Adriana’s friend who lost hers a few weeks ago. Hugs to those missing their brothers – including another close lab friend and one of our Greenlake neighbors – and those missing their sisters – including my brother’s friend who lost his adolescent sister to SUDC several years ago. Hugs to those who lost their grandparents – like my and Adriana’s high school friends who recently lost their beloved Grammies. Another set of squeezes for those who have lost close friends, like a colleague of mine who has lost two of her best. Holding close those who have lost their spouses – like our close family friend who lost her partner to cancer and Sheryl Sandberg who lost her husband Dave and wrote a book that has changed our lives. I realize now, more than ever, how lucky I am to have all of the above relationships still present in my life, plus Bryan’s extended family and many wonderful friends. 

Finally, I stand together with the thousands of bereaved mothers and fathers out there missing their children and reminding us we are not alone. Specifically, I stand beside four courageous and loving mothers: Dana, Laura, Ashley, Tracy. I couldn’t face this without your deep understanding and incredible strength. Shep, Maria, Cricket, Whitney, and Jackson will never be forgotten. And although supporting me through our loss of Jackson will never be worth the incredible cost of losing your children, you have all deeply touched and changed my life. 

I don’t know if we will ever be “happy” again, but we will certainly be kinder, more grateful, people. Our culture is unfortunately fraught with insidious “feel-goodism” and an impossible quest for happiness – whatever that is. But that is no longer my goal for this life. We are committed to appreciating what we have, giving to others, and always honoring and remembering Jackson, knowing that joy and grief will be forever intertwined in our lives. Having a greater appreciation for life does not diminish our pain, and we certainly wish we could have both gratitude and Jackson – or if forced to choose one – just Jackson. But it’s not a choice. So we run with gratitude, appreciating each day that we and others wake up, arrive safely at their destination, and clear annual doctor’s visits. I am aware each day that the universe is indiscriminate with tragedy; bad things happen to good people all the time and the universe will not necessarily spare us in the future because we’ve made this enormous payment already. As Bryan often says, each day is a gift. Thank you to all who participated in Jackson’s Kindness Project this season, I can’t begin to tell you how touched and moved we are by all your contributions in Jackson’s memory (more on that here). 

Jackson, we wish you could be here with us today to see your tree, covered in pink lights with each ornament picked out specifically for you. Mama made cookies and I know you would have loved them and asked for more. And when I said no, you would have asked Abuela. Christmas songs keep entering my mind and I wish we could sing them together. We played salsa music last night and you would have loved dancing with Tita and riding the Boosted Board with Tio. You would have cracked up at Stella and Callie running around together with zoomies last night, and you probably would have told Callie “no kisses” by now. I wish you could read books with Dada, play house with Abuelo and Abuela, and sit on your Biso and Bisa’s laps. I wish you could have played with sticker books with your friends Daniel, Addie, Parker, and Levi a couple nights ago at Auntie Sara and Uncle David’s house. I wish we could snuggle and draw shapes together and wear matching pajamas. I wish you were here to open your presents. CC, Gpa, Uncle Chris, Uncle James, Jo Jo, and Jack are all together, remember our last Christmas in Camano and missing you, too. We had “foopie” (smoothie) for breakfast this morning and will be having Fred’s steak with rice and beans for dinner, your favorites. We will light your candle at the table so you can be with us, although my heart breaks this is how you “join” us at the table, now. It’s no “merry” Christmas, but we are grateful for you and the most precious gift that was your life and our memories together. We love you forever, my sweet boy. 

Fire Trucks

 
 

Like many toddlers, Jackson loved fire trucks. He loved seeing them roar by when we were out and about, fascinated with the lights and sirens. He’d point and say “fire truck! Wee-ooo-Wee-ooo” (in his sweet, excited toddler voice), watch it go by with intent fascination, and then look at me and say, “Again!”, to which I would always reply, “Fire truck had to go bye-bye but maybe we will see one later.” We would often hear them from our house when the windows were open and he would cup his hand around his ear, something we taught him to do to hear better. But of course he was ever so cutely unintentionally covering his ear instead.

Jackson had fire truck toys and shirts and books. He loved to drive his trucks around the house, imitating their sound. When he resisted getting dressed for school in the morning, I often employed the “choice of alternatives” strategy by saying “Do you want to wear your stripes shirt or your fire truck shirt?!?” Worked like a charm every time.

One of Jackson’s favorite books was “If My Love Were a Fire Truck”, a story about the powerful love between a father and his son. It’s the book Bryan read to him on the last night. Three weeks before Jackson died I walked in on him reading it to himself. The video (below) is beautiful snapshot of his lovely spirit, incredible comprehension, and adorable speech  (Drums go boom! Ride the horse! Ride/drive the truck! Lion goes rawr!). What I didn’t realize at the time is that the ending was a painful premonition of what was to come. As Jackson explains in the video, the story ends with a father hugging his baby goodnight, saying “I love you”, and then the fire truck goes “wee-ooo-wee-ooo” and “The End”. It’s a poignant yet eerily precise, moment-by-moment description of his last night and last morning with us.

This is what I wrote to Sergeant Tony Lucero, the incredible fire fighter who came to our aid that morning after the 911 call, in a thank you card a few weeks back:

“Thank you for your service on the most tragic and horrific morning of our lives. Although many details from that day feel muddled in my mind, I will never forget the respect and kindness you showed us that morning. You delivered the worst possible news to us on that lawn outside our house in the gentlest, most straightforward way possible. And you came back later to hold my hand and tell me, with watery eyes, how as a parent you were so truly sorry for our loss. Although I wish we never had to meet that morning, I am grateful it was you who responded to our call. Jackson loved fire trucks. Although your trucks and sirens carry a whole new meaning for me now, I’ll do my best to remember the way his face lit up when he would see one.”

During the chaotic blur of that morning, I just kept having the strange thought, “Where is Jackson to see this firetruck on his very own street?!”. In some parallel universe where he hadn’t died, I imagined us sitting at the window ledge together watching it, the lights, the sirens. But the tragic irony of it all is that it was there for him, because of him, as a result of his death and inability to ever see one or hear on again. I don’t know quite how to convey how immensely painful that fact felt in that moment.

I still try to remember his sweet excited face when I hear sirens but I will admit I just can’t. Sirens are a signal that something is wrong, someone is in danger.  And I hear them everywhere. I can’t quite figure out whether there really are more sirens, or whether I am just more sensitive to hearing them, but they feel like constant reminders (5-8 times a day) of how fragile life is and how commonly it’s threatened or taken away. I don’t think anyone’s misfortune can ever really be a source of joyful memory for me anymore.

I don’t know how to wrap this entry up in a positive way and I will resist the urge to try. I just miss my Jackson and his (our) love for fire trucks. And I am so grateful for all of the incredible firefighters out there who come to the rescue of people like us on the worst days of our lives.

 

Video from August 30, 2017, 4:11pm

 

Passage of Time

It’s been 11 weeks, 2 days since Jackson died. In some ways it feels like it was just yesterday. Although I expected many emotions to linger and ebb and flow (sadness, anger, guilt, fear), I did not expect shock to still be here. I feel shocked that shock can still permeate my days when Jackson is so clearly gone. The seasons have changed, our furniture has changed, we have changed. And yet I still have to metaphorically shake my body and tell myself that Jackson is gone and he’s not coming back. 

And still, in other ways, it feels like it’s been a lifetime. It’s been just short of three months but it feels like we’ve aged years.

I feel so ambivalent about the passage of time. I remember in the early days after Jackson died I just wanted more time behind me, more days to buffer and provide distance from the acute pain of that horrible, tragic day. I was desperately hoping that what people say about time and healing is true, that time heals, joy will come, pain will ease.  And at the same time, I’m finding that as the days and weeks keep passing, I feel the added pain of having more time since the last time I held and kissed my sweet Jackson. I can hardly bear the thought of being any farther out in time than we already are. I cringe to imagine a day where I say “My son died X years ago.” I fear that his lovey will lose his scent. I fear I’ll forget how his skin felt, or how it felt to tousle his hair. I fear that – even though we have pictures and videos – I’ll forget the smaller more ‘insignificant’ moments – a cuddle in bed, his signature expressions, or the way he shrugged his shoulders – that are now anything but insignificant. I feel the urge to hoard every single memory, capture it, frame it, enshrine it.

Although the pain is still very much still with us and always will be, the days have overall become less difficult as we’ve learned to live and cope with pain. But it’s exhausting. Every morning I brace myself for what the day will bring, and every night I take stock of the pain I’ve endured, pat myself on the back for getting through it, and wash, rinse, repeat. Each day is an immense effort. On hard days, the thought that I have to endure my own life for another 50 years (“if I’m lucky”) is a hard one. I keep waiting for some ethics committee to barge into my life and decree that this is cruel and unfair. But nobody shows up because this is just part of life - and it is for so many people. We are forced to march, willfully, with the passage of time.

I also know it won’t feel this way, this intensely, forever. Nor has it felt this way exactly for the last 11-ish weeks. I am back at work, go out with friends, crack jokes, and smile for photos. I sit across from Bryan and sometimes even think “We’ve done this before – when it was just the two of us. We can do this again.” But we will never be the same. A fellow SUDC mother shared this C.S. Lewis quote with me and it resonates deeply: “There are moments, most unexpectedly, when something inside me tries to assure me that I don’t really mind so much, not so very much, after all. I was happy before I ever met H. One is ashamed to listen to this voice but it seems for a little to be making a good case. Then comes a sudden jab of red-hot memory and all this ‘commonsense’ vanishes like an ant in the mouth of a furnace.”

We keep hurting but we keep marching. Always carrying the pain – sometimes visibly and other times invisibly – wherever we go, whatever we do. Healing won’t be about eliminating the pain, but rather learning how to keep participating in life and building up coping and new experiences to continue scaffolding our lives. The pain won’t end but it will change and shift and move and we need to accept it as our companion for the long haul. A reminder of a wonderful boy, his incredible joy, and our breathtaking love. 

The Last Time

When Jackson was very young, we would snuggle before bedtime, or before a nap. As he got older, this got tricker - he would have a harder time when I ultimately left the room, so we decided to stop doing extended pre-bed snuggles, to help him fall asleep more easily.

Often, during those pre-bedtime snuggles, I would think “How special - I get to lie here in the dark with him, and he’s sleeping on my chest… someday, he’s going to outgrow this; I ought to cherish this experience.”

That thought arose many times for me: during our flower walks, our bath-times, our count-to-ten-and-jump-off-the-couch game, our playful cheers-with-a-coffee-mug before eating breakfast in the morning. In those moments, a part of me was often realizing there were only so many more times we’d play these little games together before he’d grow out of them.

The idea that I was chewing on was: “Someday, there will be a last time that I do this, and I won’t know it at the time — any time could be The Last Time we do this.”

Looking back, I can see how this idea helped me be more attentive, more aware, more present in those moments. 

In other ways, it also prepared me for when he passed away — because looking back, I know that on some level, I knew that there were only so many Flower Walks ahead of us. I just didn’t expect there to be so few of them.

Every day was a gift.

Every day is a gift.

Why We Made a Holiday Card

After Jackson died I wasn’t planning on making a holiday card this year. But despite my initial urge to “boycott the holidays”, we ended up making one. Here’s why.

On October 26th we visited our good friends S & N to pick up a delicious meal train dinner they had so lovingly prepared for us and spend some time together. When we walked into their house the very first thing I noticed was Jackson’s 2nd birthday party invitation on their fridge. Like a magnet, I instinctively walked over and gently, lovingly, put my hand on the picture of his face. Our friends came over and nervously asked if it was OK that his picture was up and expressed that they hadn’t known whether to leave it up or take it down for our visit. I immediately turned to them and, with tears and a smile on my face, told them “I love it”.

That was the moment I knew that we had to do a holiday card this year. That I wanted to blast every fridge and mantel with Jackson’s face this year. That I needed to behaviorally communicate to everyone we know that the only way we could handle and survive the holidays this year was to have Jackson front and center.  

We also knew that people were understandably going to be nervous about bringing him up, saying his name, or “reminding” us that he’s gone. The truth is that it’s impossible to remind a grieving person of the absence of their loved one. But I didn’t understand this – or so many other things about grief – until Jackson died. So, I knew that people were going to need our explicit permission to remember Jackson with us this holiday season.

I’ve also learned that although there are some universal truths about grief, there are also individual differences in how people prefer to be treated. Sheryl Sandberg says in her book, Option B, that it’s important to treat others as they want to be treated, not as you would want to be treated in the same situation. So, it can be understandably difficult to know how to treat us right now. People are unsure of what to say and how to act – and I would be (and have been), too. I quickly realized that the most efficient and effective way to get what we needed was to be direct and clear about what we find helpful versus not. Although books often depict this kind of coaching as an unnecessary burden on the bereaved, I have found it to be somewhat of a “win-win” when it comes to receiving social support. Our friends and family have expressed feeling “let in” and more confident in reaching out and, as a result, we have felt better understood and optimally cared for.

We decided to make the card – and this website and the Kindness Project – to express in no uncertain terms how much we want to remember Jackson over the holidays, and forever. I searched through hundreds of templates and found exactly one appropriate, perfect sentiment: “A Year to Remember”. Not “Joy”, or “Happiest Holidays” or “It’s a Wonderful Life”. We needed a simple and true statement that reflects exactly how we feel, that we want to remember Jackson’s second and last year with us. Although we can’t prevent the world from going on and we can’t force people to stop carrying on with their lives, we can ask everyone we know to at least remember him with us. 

Chords

“How are you doing?”

I used to answer this question with a single number, on a scale of zero-to-ten. “Eh, work has been pretty great, and Jackson’s super-wonderful, though he’s not been sleeping well the last few nights, so I’m extremely tired. Maybe an 8?”

But now — now I don’t think the zero-to-ten scale works. There are times I feel like a negative number, or maybe an imaginary one. A single number doesn’t seem enough to capture the multiple threads of feeling that I have now.

If the zero-to-ten scale is a single note, my day-to-day feelings now are like a chord progression. I have individual notes (career, friendships) that are still perfectly great in their eights and nines; I now also have deeper, lower notes that are always playing, though they vary in intensity and duration.

Sometimes it adds up to a major chord, with low bass notes that remind me of the happy times that I had with Jackson.

Sometimes it’s a low minor chord, with few-if-any high notes.

More often than not, it’s somewhere in-between: some complex chord that would’ve stressed me out to try and play it back when I played piano regularly. It’s composed of a major chord in the right hand, and maybe some dissonant, quieter, slow-moving bass line with the left.

— 

The answer I give to “How are you?” is going to vary depending on the questioner, too. Cab drivers, baristas, and other casual interactions with strangers are probably just going to get the “right-hand” answer. No need to bring in the low notes there; just keep moving.

If you’re ever worried about asking us how we’re doing — maybe you’re afraid to bring it up, or bring us down, because it seems like we’re doing OK and that might bring us down — please, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re always thinking of him; the left hand continues its chord progression, the song is always playing, and we’d love to share it with you.

On Feeling Grateful

 

The worst has happened, and it could have been worse. 

Feeling grateful after unspeakable tragedy is a tricky thing. But like many things that violated my expectations about the aftermath of trauma and loss, I have found gratefulness to show up in a big way. Surely we’ve had moments of hating the universe and feeling cursed and personally attacked by misfortune, but it’s been surprisingly instinctive to feel grateful — in part because there really is a lot to be grateful for. I also think we gravitate to gratefulness because our brains need it.

On the fifth day after Jackson died, I was staring at the blank journal my sister had given me. I was struggling with insomnia and intense waves of shock and despair. Strangely, I realized that the only thing that helped in those early days was to think of things for which I was grateful, and the ways it could have been worse. I jotted these down as my first journal entry:

  • Jackson only knew love and joy in his life

  • Jackson died in his sleep without evidence of pain or suffering

  • Jackson didn’t die as a result of negligence or parental mistake

  • Jackson didn’t spend his last days/weeks/months dying slowly in a hospital

  • Bryan and I were together when we found Jackson that morning

  • Although a part of us died that day with him, we are still here

Realizing the ways this could have been worse did not feel forced or contrived. I desperately needed to think through the ways in which we were fortunate. The more I thought about it, the broader the gratitude became — not only about the exact circumstances of his death, but about our general life circumstances and support network. The list grew rapidly:  

  • Our parents are alive and able to physically and emotionally help us survive this

  • We have family in Seattle and eager-and-able-to-visit family in California

  • We have a beyond-incredible network of friends, colleagues, and mentors

  • Our family has the financial means to fund cremation, memorial, and counseling services that many other families cannot readily afford

  • We are educated and have access to information and the ability to understand it; my parents are doctors and have helpful knowledge to fill in the gaps

  • Our marriage is strong and I strongly believe we will “make it” together

  • I have a background in psychological recovery after trauma and know many excellent psychologists

  • We have the incredible SUDC Foundation to provide resources and support

  • Jackson had the most incredible day care experience with the kindest most dedicated teachers who loved him as their own, and who continue to stay in touch

  • Jackson made it to his wonderful second birthday party

  • Jackson got to experience so many "bucket list" things that we thankfully didn’t postpone (e.g., swimming lessons, music lessons, zoo and aquarium visits, potty training, precious photoshoots, trip to Puerto Rico, family reunions, trips to Camano and California, and so much bacon and ice cream)

  • Jackson touched the lives of many; and through that, will live on in so many memories

  • We got to experience the incredibly special gift of parenthood, however brief

  • We have Stella

After nine weeks-worth of hearing others’ stories, connecting with other parents, and reading countless books about grief and loss, it has become so abundantly clear that we are so, so, so immensely lucky. Even our grief counselor pointed out last week, “Your support network is exceptional – I mean, truly, exceptional”. She is right, the outpour of love and support we have received is out-of-this-world, incredibly, uniquely, special.

We’ve been flooded with cards and messages and calls, dozens and dozens and dozens of flowers, and have yet to cook for ourselves after two months of mealtrain. Our family and friends have raised thousands of dollars for Seattle Children’s Hospital and PEPS (who recently notified us that the funds will ensure that "every parent in the Seattle area will receive the support they need”). Masses have been held, trees and flowers planted, tattoos inked, half-marathons run, and memorial tributes scheduled. We’ve received thoughtful gifts (“Jackson” jewelry, grief books, long-distance care packages, candle votives, a very special bird feeder, and endless self-care products and experiences). Day care teachers hand made a memory book and enshrined his favorite bear slippers. My incredible friends and colleagues have taken over my clients, taught my classes, and kept my dissertation research going in my absence. My mentors helped me apply for internship, hand-picked our incredible grief counselor, and have provided the most incredible emotional and professional support. Our friends have taken turns visiting, many traveling multiple times from California, just to hold us and be with us. My lovely Chi O’s in San Francisco held an “Option B” book club to support us from afar. Brette Humphrey gave the most incredible Eulogy at Jackson’s service and Jesse Dashe held our hands as we picked up Jackson’s ashes. Our sister-in-law Jordan, with the help and support of family and friends, planned and organized his beautiful service. And our brand-new neighbors held us on that tragic morning until the outpour of family and friends arrived. All I know it that it takes a village to survive this, and we have an army of the world’s greatest.

The reality is that none of this takes the pain away (I wish it did), but it sure helps us survive it. So on this Thanksgiving day, allow me to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for holding us in yours. We are deeply, deeply grateful.

Enjoying What We Didn't Choose

“I’d do anything to have a single morning to sleep in”

I said this a lot during my first two years as a parent. Sleep deprivation is intense and very real. For about 6 months earlier this year, Jackson woke up every morning around 4:30, ready for the day, no matter what we did to try to get us all back to sleep. By summer time we had finally gotten him to "sleep in" until the 5’s. And then one miracle day, the 6’s. But I never got used to the tiredness and I would always tell my family that the best birthday/Christmas/Mother’s Day gift was the gift of sleep. All I wanted was a precious nap, or a luxurious morning to wake up to my own rested internal clock. 

Then Jackson died. 

It’s a strange thing to crave sleep and time and freedom, and to then suddenly have them and hate them. I wake up every morning to silence and miss his crying. I spend every evening doing “whatever I want” and miss his demands to play “1, 2, 3” or “Where is Jackson?” over, and over, and over again. I make evening plans and weekend plans with no conflicting obligations, yet miss my carefully-blocked schedule of naptimes and mealtimes and bedtimes. 

Bryan and I spend what feels like an eternity – each day – in a quiet house with all of the time in the world and no desire for any of it. 

And then there are the moments when instead of hating our new lives we find ourselves enjoying them. Back-to-back games of Settlers of Catan, a spontaneous dinner outing, or that stupid precious nap in the middle of the day. It feels awful to like or enjoy something that has grown out of this horrendous tragedy. 

To this end, Bryan coined our new mantra: “We didn’t choose this”. 

Obviously, we would trade back all of these new freedoms to have Jackson back. I’d gleefully take back all of the hard stuff – the sleep deprivation, the tantrums, the poopy underpants – to have one more second with my son. But, given that he is gone and we are forced to live a life we so painfully did not choose, we are finding how to “enjoy” anything remotely enjoyable. We call these “We’ll take ‘em” moments. It’s definitely not easy, but we have learned to be gentle with ourselves.  

Learning to enjoy new freedoms has also grown into learning to recognize and appreciate what I call our “slivers of growth”. It’s only been 8 weeks, but I can already see some examples of growth, including: my marriage, intimacy and closeness with our families and friends, new "grief friendships" with other bereaved parents, deeper empathy for my clients, a greater appreciation for the fragility and preciousness life, unwanted yet invaluable wisdom about grief (and, sadly, several opportunities already to use this new wisdom in supporting others grieving), and someday, if we’re lucky, the opportunity to bring children into this world who otherwise wouldn’t be here. 

It bears repeating – I would trade back all of this closeness and wisdom to go back in time and erase this horrendous loss from my life. But I can’t. And accepting that I can’t has been the foundation for allowing enjoyment in our lives and accepting our new slivers of growth.

Train Tracks

Of course, it couldn’t be any other way.

Our train was headed north, full steam ahead.

We had a son, a home, our careers, our community — and on many days, while we knew we were extremely fortunate to have all of this, it felt obvious that it would carry on. It felt like we had it too good, that there had to be something that could go wrong, because things were going so well in the domains of our lives.

We figured that sure, tragedy would visit us, close to our hearts, some day. Maybe it would be losing our parents, or losing a friend in an accident or to some disease, or just the gnawing everyday fear about climate change and geopolitics and how they would wreak havoc on our son’s world as he grew up. These tragedies are the kinds that happen to everybody — while they are still devastating, they are the expected path of life.

Meanwhile, Jackson would grow up, go to school, have friends, play outside, have a life. We’d grow old together with him; grow our friendships with him, his friends, his friends’ families, our friends’ growing families.

All of that was on our track: we were headed in a direction, and felt that we’d be strong enough to cope and carry through those hard times, whenever they hit, because our family would be together.

Our train was headed north, full steam ahead — with some expected tragedy in the distance, sure — but all was well.

On September 20, just after our son’s second birthday, we found him in his crib, gone. He’d passed away in his sleep.

Some time in the night, our train turned unexpectedly. We’d gone over some switch, and when we woke up, our train was heading east instead of north.

Jackson was gone forever. Our plans and hopes were gone. The other track, the one we thought we’d be on, was visible, fading off in the distance to the north.

We’d carry on in some way, sure, but there was no option to go back, to switch tracks, or to change what happened. No way to see him again, no way to hold him again. No more toast and cream cheese, no more books, no more playing kitchen, no more gardening, no more listening to firetrucks in the distance, no more daycare pickups, no more zoo visits.

That northern track was still visible for a few weeks, and in short moments, we would forget which track we were on. We’d wake up in the morning, and think to go downstairs and get him. I’d reach 5pm, and feel sure that he’d be home from daycare soon. I’d see a toy of his, and imagine him playing with it only a few weeks ago.

These little illusions were devastating. My brain would quietly drift back to its old habits, and then get ripped back into present-day: it was like losing him all over again, and all because some cue from our old life made me forget my new track. 
The switch was silent, sudden, uncaring, and permanent. Nobody flipped it — it had been that way all along, only we couldn’t see it beforehand.

It’s been a couple of months now, and the northern track is fading in the distance. We can’t exactly predict how Jackson would do, and his smell has faded from the house (though his little lovey blanket still has some Jackson Funk in it.)

In my experience, accepting that Jackson is gone has been the surest way to ride out the waves of grief.

It’s helped to have time, to feel some distance from the northern track, and to not have our sense-memories drift us back into those little illusions. That brings acceptance: we can’t predict what would’ve happened on the northern train, and can no longer really see it, so it doesn’t feel as tangible, as obvious, as right-in-front-of-us, and that makes it easier.

It’s helped to think about how the switch wasn’t set by anybody. Jackson passed away in his sleep: nobody was to blame, nobody could’ve stopped it if they were there. He was gone in an instant, with a peaceful look on his face. Natalia and I don’t have to blame each other for some accident, or for some negligence — this was going to happen whether we knew it or not, and in many ways, I am far happier having been ignorant that our little train was barreling towards that switch. We had two wonderful years with that kid, happy until the last.

It’s helped to find areas of post-traumatic growth. We’ve talked with the SUDC Foundation, and learned that in the 800 families they’ve worked with, this has never struck a family twice. We’ve talked with other parents who have lost their children. We’ve been seeing a grief counselor. We’ve been surrounded by friends and family every day these past two months.

It’s helped to keep Jackson close in our hearts, and find ways to remember him: a garden in the back yard, with painted rocks. Saying good morning and good night to his urn. Talking about him, and encouraging others to do the same. Our lives are far richer for having had him for those two sweet years, and he loved every minute of them. It helps to remember that.

So: time, acceptance, post-traumatic growth, and keeping him close in our hearts.

The track was set long before we got there, and there’s no option to switch back. We didn’t choose this. We can only accept what has happened, and find a way to keep going.