Half a Decade

The other day someone asked me how old Jackson would be today. I opened my mouth to respond, only to realize I wasn’t entirely sure. Five, right? No, six. Wait… seven.

Among the many things that can make parents feel like “bad parents”, forgetting your child’s age never feels good. But how am I supposed to remember how old he would be if I haven’t been shopping for his clothes, enrolling him in school, and filling out dozens of forms with his age? I also haven’t had the chance to see him tie his shoes, start to read, or go off to summer camp. I never even got the chance to agonize over whether to hold him back or not in school – to be the oldest or youngest in his class – like everyone said I would. So, of course I’ve lost track. In my mind, he’s still holding up two fingers at his backyard birthday party - “I’m two!”.

This really hit me a couple weeks ago as Jackson’s peers all turned seven. I saw a photo of one of them holding up seven fingers for a photo. On one hand, those same two little sweet fingers I remember Jackson holding up. On the other hand, five whole fingers representing Jackson’s gaping absence. I zoomed out further, taking in the sight of their body -- tall, stretched out, no more toddler-chub at their ankles -- and their suddenly grown up face. I felt almost dizzy. When did this all happen? The passage of time felt almost violent.

We sent out an invitation for Jackson’s Flower Walk last week and I wondered what it feels like for other people to keep getting requests from us to walk in Jackson’s honor, donate to SUDC Foundation, and keep remembering our son. I noticed feeling self-conscious, worried even, that someone might have the thought “Are we still doing this?”. I don’t actually think anyone would think this, and I am certain nobody would ever say it to our face, but I felt so hurt just imagining the thought entering anyone’s mind. Then I took a step back and realized, maybe it’s a thought that has entered my own mind.

Before Jackson died I did not understand grief. Grief felt heavy and fragile and awkward. Supporting a griever felt like something I couldn’t “get right.” I would hear people talk about their pain and immediately think of silver linings or ways to change their feelings to make them more comfortable… or make myself less uncomfortable. I will admit I have definitely done mental math about others’ losses (“how long ago was this?”) in order to evaluate the appropriateness of their grief. Now I know better.

What I’ve learned about grief is this: it doesn’t go away. It changes but it stays with you, and that’s ok. Our culture of toxic positivity will have you believe that at a certain point it’s “time to move on”, or that life eventually “returns to normal.” But we never move on or go back to normal – we simply move forward in our new normal. I think you have to be in the club to truly understand this. Even those of us in the club sometimes forget – as I do, from time to time.

Bryan and I are somehow “ok” after all this. We are functioning in our lives – at work, at home, in our relationships, with each other. We somehow put our kids to bed every night, not knowing if they will wake up, but trusting that they will, or perhaps just trusting we can handle any outcome. Nobody could have shown me a scene from our current lives (joyfully whipping up pancakes on a Saturday morning with Owen and Mateo) five years ago and convinced me this was even remotely possible. But here we are, enjoying our lives with two sweet living children (and Stella!), and also missing our Jackson bub. There will always be an empty chair, there will always be a pause in the conversation, there will always be a hole in my heart. The healing happens around the edges of that hole – after five years, it’s adorned with flowers and other beautiful things that have grown out of this tragedy. But the hole remains, and nobody ever could (nor would I let them if they could) fully paper-over that hole.

September is around the corner and we are feeling all the feels that come with that. I recently stumbled on this quote and it resonates deeply with why we keep inviting others to walk in Jackson’s honor, donate to SUDC Foundation, and keep remembering our son: “It’s up to all of us who are lucky to still be on this earth to make sure that what was so special about someone’s soul lives on beyond their last breath, and, even more importantly, that it’s shared with others” – Samantha Klein.

Thank you all for your support. I will keep inviting the world to flower walks for Jackson until my legs stop working. As long as my heart is beating, I’ll be saying Jackson’s name and asking you to keep saying it with me.