Searching
When I first became acquainted with Josh's writing at his blog Jack at Random, I became immediately enchanted with the beauty and honesty in which he articulated his deep heartbreak. I grieved with him for his daughter Margot, who died March 24, 2011, after his wife fell and suffered a full placental abruption. In a blink, he lost his second daughter, almost lost his wife. The raw love, jagged and stunning, expressed in each sentence resonated so deeply with me. I found myself crying before I knew I was grieving for another. We are just so honored that Josh has agreed to join us here, as a regular contributor, sharing his journey as father and husband with us. Please help me welcome Josh to this space. --Angie
She was there for a time, in my arms, her cool cheek against my wet cheek, her pale forehead touching my forehead, her limp body held tightly against my chest.
Then she was off, in the care of impassive strangers, having open heart surgery to remove her valves for donation, taking little joyrides around Los Angeles between the hospital and coroner and crematorium.
She arrived back to me in a little white canister, her name neatly typed in courier font on a small strip of paper: Margot June Jackson. Number 4-2389. Cremated 03/31/2011.
And then she was in my sock drawer. She was partly there to protect us all from the possible awkwardness of others seeing her, and partly to protect us from the harsh reality that our daughter was suddenly reduced to ashes. For those few days before the memorial, I saw nothing in my house but the canister. I’d walk past mourning grandparents, step over my two year olds toys, eat dinner around a table and it was all just a blur. My daughter was in my house, in a canister, and I saw nothing else.
And then we took her into the woods and poured her into the river.
And then I couldn’t find her.
For if we find the deceased in our collective memories, where they still live on, cemented in photos and stories, how can we possibly find our babies? When memories barely exist, a few hours here, a few days there, how can they remain present? And when there are so few collective stories, passed on by those who knew and loved and touched the deceased, how will anyone else remember or find our babies? 
Heaven would be nice, if I believed in such a possibility. It’s a comforting thought to think I could meet her one day again. Reincarnation would be nice too, the thought that she might resurface somewhere in the world, another chance at the tricky elusiveness of life. But instead, my mind only allows what I can know without doubt. She died. We had her cremated. And we placed her ashes into the river.
Even still, I search and search, looking around every river bend, under every mountain rock and desert plant, on the metro and freeway, in the few pictures we have, in my fleeting memories, in my letters to her. But she is rarely there, always just out of my grasp, always still dead.
And yet.
As the months trudge on without her, as my search turns up empty, as the solitary moments I had with her slowly scatter to the far reaches of my memory, I’m starting to notice that as my grief evolves, I can find her from time to time.
Sometimes I find her in this new life that has suddenly emerged, one filled with desperate sorrow over her loss and sadness over a life that has become different than I always imagined. And in carrying these losses from day to day, I carry my daughter along with them.
Sometimes I find her in the water, in the river where we said goodbye, in the ocean where she eventually ended up.
Sometimes I find her in this new company I’m now apart of, the society of the suffering. We have joined those who know and experience loss, whether close to home or far away. I find intimacy with them, with you, and in those moments, I feel close to her.
Sometimes I find her in new friendships, which have only formed because of her absence.
Sometimes I find her in my broken heart, the fragmented pieces that drip with sadness but also hold her very existence. Since I can never have her back, what’s better - a whole heart without her ever existing, or a broken heart with her dead? No matter how short her life, no matter how little time we had together, she is my second child. And I choose her.
Where do you find your kids? Do you find them in different places as your grief has evolved over the months and years? Do you find them at the grave, in your home or the spot where the ashes were scattered? Do you find your baby in a symbol?
25 Comments
Reader Comments (25)
Your first post is beautiful, Josh. Just as everything I've read of yours is. Always good to hear the voice of another dad here.
Physically, I find Hope at the beautiful cemetery where we buried her. She's in a small white coffin, six feet under a carefully chosen bronze plaque.
But I don't feel her there and never really have. I guess that's why we don't visit there often. I guess I just feel her.... everywhere, all the time. I don't have to be some place special. I guess she's mostly kept in my heart and mind, where others can't get to her and make me feel as if I'm dwelling. They are the only places I can keep her memory safe and close.
After reading, I'm sure I won't be able to keep from commenting again.
But wanted to say: Glad You Are Here, Josh. You are most welcome.
Cathy in Missouri
I do visit her grave often, I feel I need to take care of her space, to know her body is as safe as it can be, though I do dwell sometimes rather too long on just how she is down there in the earth.
Mostly though, she's with me, just out of sight,just out of earshot and hiding in the sunbeams, this is my brains way of comforting my soul, because really I know she's dead.
And I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream.
- George Linley
This really resonated with me, because I find it so hard to see Calla anywhere. I mean, it's not like I have a huge bank of memories from which to draw. It's mostly what I can conjure all by myself. And that really stings.
But like you, I find her here, in this community, where I can talk about her without feeling like someone's doing the internal yawn. I can grieve her, imagine her, wonder who she would have been.
And I like that question, about the whole vs shattered heart. I was just thinking about this today. This is who we are, huh?
Thanks for writing, and sharing. Looking forward to reading more from you.
As Sally put it, physically, Katie's ashes were interred in a wall niche in a cemetery about a 15 minute drive from our house. Even after 13 years, we still visit just about every single weekend.
In a spiritual sense, she is always with me. Always. There is not a single day & maybe not an hour that goes by when I'm not thinking of her in some way. She's with me when I see pregnant women, babies in strollers and young teenaged girls giggling together (she would be 13 this fall and starting Grade 8 next week). She's with me when all her cousins are together and I think about the one little girl who will always be missing from the pictures. She's with me in my blog and in this whole online community. She's with me whenever I meet up with my friends who are also bereaved parents. She's with me when I visit the farmland my ancestors lived on 130 years ago, and the cemetery where they are buried, and I wonder whether she is with them all now, in another place, waiting for me to join them someday. As the Beatles sang, Here, There, Everywhere. : )
My son is in the wildflowers. He came and went in a blink of an eye but the beauty he brought to my life has been striking and follows me where ever I go. Every spring when the wildflowers start blooming, the time of the year he was born and died, will always remind me of our brief time with him. Even lives as brief as his can make an enormous impact.
My son is in the face of his father. I can imagine the man he would have been, like his father, the best man I've ever known and I am proud to be his mother.
My son is in the relationships I've built since he died.
My son is in the person I've become since he died.
My son is everywhere and nowhere. He's a ghost and he is all around.
To be honest, I thought it was a weird little poem but then after we lost Eliza, it kept coming into my head. I couldn't even remember where I'd read those lines until I came across the box when we organized some of the nursery things later. It made me think that if she isn't here, she must be back where she came from--which is to say, everywhere.
Mostly I just want her in my arms where she belongs. But I'll take her anywhere I can find her--a poem, a song, flirty little butterflies, yellow blooms, my husband's smile, a hug from my mom, a letter from a friend, and yes, the words of comfort and understanding from this society of suffering.
Josh, I love love love the end of this post...It reminds me of my very raw early days, when I was so mixed up in talking about our loss....I kept talking about how horrible it was, how horrific, how difficult my pregnancy had been for me having suffered a prior loss and then to lose AGAIN...And I kept saying, "Not that I could or would EVER wish him out of existence" to qualify my statements. I just kept feeling the need to say that. And, I think, that surprises non-loss people. To think we'd do it all again and still lose in order to have that love and give them life for however long they can stay with us.
Where IS he? This is something I ask myself every day and I struggle with the answer.
I liked Jess' sentiment about the brain womb. That he's in my brain womb, still warm and safe, tucked up, snug as a bug in a rug.
Also, what Brooke said, that he's back where he came from - everywhere. I just wish I could feel him, his presence, to have some feeling that he's OK, wherever he is.
Argh, and this: "Since I can never have her back, what’s better - a whole heart without her ever existing, or a broken heart with her dead? No matter how short her life, no matter how little time we had together, she is my second child. And I choose her." This broke me, again.
Peace to you in the search. To all of us.
I remember in the early days, I just wanted the pain to stop but I didn't want to wish Sam away. I would do it all over again, even knowing the outcome, just to have him for the brief time I did.
I have a few places that I associate with him - a nearby provincial park where I left a spirit plate and tobacco offerings for him, a very sacred site where I left a ribbon shirt along with other offerings for him, sometimes I catch a glimpse of him in his brother, and I often touch his urn and say a little something to him. I struggle with all these notions though - can he hear me, does he know how much I miss and love him? I'd like to think so, but I don't know for sure.
Thanks for your writing.
loribeth, your comment about the little girl who will always be missing from the family pictures. That struck my heart today. We just got the families together this past weekend for lots of pictures. All the little cousins on their grandparents steps. Our baby girl is the one missing. The only girl among all those boys and she will never be in those pictures. How that truly breaks my heart over and over. That's what hurts the most, where she is not and never will be.
For me, like so many others, my son is everywhere. And he's especially everywhere he's not. Which is comforting and heartbreaking all in one . . .
One wrote his name in sand and lit candles nearby for him.
Another wrote his name on a recyclable wood and planted it with a flourishing orchid and a fern.
Another sent him sailing off in a paper boat (because two year olds love paper boats) across a river. He was supposed to venture to sea, but apparently he had other plans, and is waiting for us on the other side of the river.
His name is written in the stars, and in a Library of Congress call number.
He is joyful and at peace, wherever he is precisely (physically in a tiny box on the mantle, guarded by a green kangaroo and a teddy bear), and that's a wonderful feeling.
"I just wanted the pain to stop but I didn't want to wish Sam away. I would do it all over again, even knowing the outcome, just to have him for the brief time I did."
Some days, I wish my brain would just shut down. I have literally gone to bed and cried and begged to not think about him. It hurts so much to think about him. Then on the other hand, I don't ever want to forget him. He will forever be a part of me... of who I am and will become. I would gladly endure the pain and heartache just to have another chance to hold him again.
I'm still trying to find my son. I'm not really sure that I have a place that reminds me of him yet. I have his ashes in my bedroom, up on a shelf. It kills me to see him there. It feels like I'm putting him away. I want to create a place for him but I don't want to turn it into a depressing, shrine. I'm still navigating my way through this painful, confusing journey... or whatever it is.
My son Noah is physically in our bedroom. His ashes sit with photos, sympathy cards, and the clothes the hospital gave us for him for the few hours we could hold him. I like having in the room where he was imagined and then conceived. I like having him close to me when I sleep. I know someday the time will come to scatter his ashes somewhere beautiful, but I am not ready yet.
He is in the garden we planted for him two days after we was born and died. He is in the lupine that just today started putting up another blossom, even though summer is winding down where I live. He is in the tree that our friends donated in memory of him. He is in every little blond haired boy I see. He is in every rainbow that I see, and the soft rustling wind in the leaves. He is in my heart. He is a part of me.
Chrystal, I'm terribly sorry that you had to find this space at all. I'm sorry you lost your son Nathan. It was hard to find Margot too, so soon after losing her. The shock and pain of losing her was all there was, which made finding her all the more difficult. I think one of the beautiful things about time is that it has given me a chance to cultivate a relationship with Margot in some strange way. As I parent her through letters and thoughts and writing about her and taking part in this community, my relationship to her has grown, which allows me to find her more often. I hope there is some solace in this reality. Your son Cameron shares a birthday with my first daughter Stella, who was born on February 21, 2009, a year after Cameron. Peace to you today, Chrystal, and thanks again for sharing your thoughts.
Josh
Thanks for this post.
My little girl's ashes are in our equivalent of the 'sock drawer', in a box at the back of our wardrobe. Her ashes weren't meant to stay there all this time but, three years later, that is where they seem to have come to rest.
As other posters have already commented, I often feel that she is very near to me, just outside of my field of vision, just outside of my grasp, fingertip close. That if only I could whip my head around quick enough, hold on tight enough, there she'd be. Even after three years, she still feels achingly close. And I wonder if that is because I choose to keep her here, that my searching keeps her anchored here? Your last paragraph really spoke to me too. She's always with me and never with me, all at once.
I see Emma mostly in the faces of her siblings, They are all so alike, my four children, that I often catch glimpses of her in their eyes. When my daughter plays with her cousin (who is 6 weeks older than Emma), I could swear sometimes that I catch a glimpse of Emma joining in the games - and it always breaks me.
The cemetery is beautiful and I do find it peaceful to visit but, like Sally, I have never felt as though her essence is there. She is more here - in our front room - where I posed for pictures with my painted belly full of her, where she was almost born, where her waters broke all over the carpet, where she nearly but not quite came to us. And, we are planning to move. I haven't quite worked out how I feel about that.