Pale Blue Dot
See the faint dot between the white lines? That's planet earth. And it makes me wonder about my dead baby.
Just before Voyager 1 ended it's primary mission and blasted off towards the outer reaches of the Solar System, it spun around and snapped a photo of earth, some three and a half billion miles away. This photo was taken in 1990 (and the Voyager, incredulously, is still going).
On the one hand, of course, the sheer insignificance of the earth, and our lives, in the grand scheme of the solar system is sobering. There appears to be a bigger story being written, cosmic and infinite in size, and one that will be downright impossible to ever understand. The notion that any of us, with such finite minds and limited understanding, could have anything figured out seems almost foolish. As astronomer Carl Sagan pointed out, “Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark.”
From this vantage point of earth, everything about our significance is lost. The pain and joy and suffering and pleasures of our earthly human existence are all invisible. From out here looking in, our spinning earth boils down to life and death. The collective species lives and dies and enters the earth. End of story.
Insert my Margot into this picture of earth and you can barely discern any difference between her and the rest of the species. She lived, she died. She suffered the same fate as everyone else, and from this far away, the difference between her life and her great, great grandmother’s life is a mere blip in time, the same beginning, the same end. There is no tragedy from this vantage point, no suffering, no feeling of loss.
I am insignificant. She is insignificant. But at least we are together, tiny specks on a tiny speck with no Horton looking out for us. And there is some peace in this reality, some science comfort.
The other side of this image, however, reveals what a crazy, far-fetched, inconceivable fucking miracle it is that we even exist at all. The notion that the universe aligned in just the precise way for the species to make their grand entrance on planet earth, and for the species to continue to evolve over the millennia, and to evolve in such a way that our brains allow us the ability to think and feel and experience this little speck on which we live, is damn well breathtaking.
It’s here where I feel the tragedy of Margot June more deeply than ever. Her own miraculous story was cut short, without ever getting to experience this cosmic mystery of life on earth.
I used to feel so sorry for my family, for our collective broken hearts, for the life we didn’t ask for, for the loneliness of losing a child. For her mother, whose waisted milk came in and dripped aimlessly down her flesh, who carried her for thirty-nine long weeks, who felt this more than anyone; for her sister, who kissed her in utero and spoke of her constantly, who always got this euphoric look in her eye when we described what being a sister meant for her; for myself and the broken dream of raising two girls, holding them both in my arms as we navigated life together.
Now days I mostly just feel sorry for her.
For in this image, I’m reminded of the revelation that she was, and all that was waiting for her on the other side of the womb. I’m heartbroken she missed out on the complexities of life on earth, no matter how insignificant or miraculous our pale blue dot is.
How does this image of planet earth make you feel in regards to your missing children? Does it bring peace or despair or a mix of both? Does science play a role in your grief? As the time has dragged on without your children, have you felt more or less sorry for yourselves?
18 Comments
Reader Comments (18)
I know others feel differently. When we were driving home from the hospital after delivering our daughter the song "Do You Realize" by the Flaming Lips came on. (I think the lyrics hint at what we're talking about, at least in my interpretation.) At that moment in the depths of our grief I found it a comforting reminder, uplifting even, that our Bea was a part of this universe, she lived and died, just like everyone else. My husband turned it off. It just made him feel more depressed.
I can't articulate my thoughts on this very well, especially when it comes to my son, whose short life was fill with suffering and pain. But it's something I think about a lot. And I don't feel sorry for myself. (at least not at this particular moment.) I'm just really, really angry at everything that has happened to my family.
As time goes on, I feel less sorry for me, and more sorry for him. I wish he could have seen a sunset, felt a hug, tasted a strawberry, learned a song, run a mile, drawn a picture, fell in love. This world may be insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but it has so much goodness in it. I wish he could have experienced all that it had to offer.
Science gave me the peace of mind of knowing why she died. A tiny cell, tinier than the pale blue dot, didn't divide right, and she had trisomy 13 because of it. That was the mechanism of her bodily death. Her life, though, her being and existence, gave us so much joy. I feel she continues, but somewhere I can't see, and won't know, until my body dies too.
Great post, Josh. You guys have been in my thoughts so much of late. I know Margot's birthday is fast approaching.
xo
I ponder the animal kingdom. How must they deal with the loss of their offspring? I watch documentaries where vulnerable young are killed - and I cry for their parents. I'm sure this seems odd, but I am trying to make sense of the world, of my beliefs, of what I believe happens after death. And I agree with Emily "I do not believe my son is an angel, I do not believe he's in heaven... I believe he and whatever he was or could have been, is gone for good."
I also like Jill's reference to "Do you realize", the lyrics point it out so matter of factly. "Do you realize, that everyone you know someday will die." This is the inevitability of life - it's just our children died far to young to experience the beautiful things we do have in this life, relationships and experiences - things we are more aware of because of our evolution as a species.
I feel sad my daughter will never get to experience these things like the sun shining on her face, digging her toes into the soil and watching bees pollenating flowers. Simple wonders of our world that is but a spec in the solar system and beyond.
when my son died, i was overcome with anger at the universe, at the natural world, that this little life, my son, his life was wasted. stolen. i have a lot of sadness surrounding my daughter, but i have a ton of anger associated with my son's stillbirth. i pretty much hate the universe for letting him die.
and it was so scientific. reading thru the causes of why and how he died, things not working as they should, cells not acting as they should, causing a clot, randomly, to stop his heart. other babies with this same placental issue lived... it felt so cold and mean, just like the universe. the universe doesn't care how cute a little puffy animal is, little puffy animals get eaten and run over by cars and shot and eaten. the universe doesn't care about your mom getting cancer and dying at the prime of her life. doesn't care about battery acid being poured into people's drinking water sources. doesn't care about little baby's dying.
so, i try not to focus on the cold, scientific point of view. that's what that picture looks like to me- cold. like, none of it matters. and that is my whole thing with losing my babies- they *did* matter! its hard enough to convince your fellow pale-bue-dotters to care about your dead babies, to think that it doesn't even matter that you yourself care, well, uggh. i try to focus on the love that was there, for that little period of time that our hearts were beating at the same time. try to focus on the love i still have for them. does that love trump the vast emptiness of the universe and beyond? for me, it does.
and, i do feel sorry for myslef, i the same way i feel sorry for a momma cow that has her calf taken away to be a veal calf. its sad. my babies were taken from me, and i do feel sorry for that. that shit's just not supposed to happen.
I get overwhelmed by our sheer insignificance, and yet also comforted by it. Now. Early on, it was too much. I hated being in my head around ideas like the universe and being a speck on a speck. Lucy was little, so little. So forgotten, she was not even quite a speck, yet she looms so large in my heart, and life. It was difficult to sit quietly with thoughts of the universe. Maybe it is because when I got down to it, it made my grief feel silly and unjustified. But I can see now it is just insecurity around grieving, and being judged. I don't care now. I miss her, speck or not.
Thank you for a beautiful piece.
this image brings more despair than anything mostly because it breaks my heart to think of my baby as a spec. Even if I am too.
Beautiful piece Josh. Thanks for sharing.
On my sadder days I wonder which twin got the better deal, simply because being alive can be painful at times. I remember telling my husband after Georgina died that I was grateful that this could not happen to her, that she herself would not lose a child. Clutching at straws for consolation there a little admittedly!
I do feel desperate, despairing sorrow for Georgina. A brief existence as a speck might have been all she could have expected but to have even that snatched away? When I don't know if there is anything beyond this short life? When it was all I hoped for on her behalf? When it was all I had to offer her and all I wanted to give her? That she never felt the sun on her face, food in her mouth? Never felt her sister's arms around her? And she never, ever will. That she only had three painful days when I have had thirty two whole years, an aeon in comparison? That does make me feel very, very sad indeed. And yes, sorry for her. I wish I could give her whatever years I might have left in me but sadly, I can't donate years of life as I can donate blood or an organ.
When you think of what an amazing, far fetched miracle it is that any of us are here at all, it makes me feel even more sorrowful. Because that was her chance. Her only chance at this dubious prize that I was offering, human life. And she was conceived, she was perfectly formed, little fingers and toes and blue eyes and hair and a brain. But even with every assistance possible it wasn't enough and she died. The phrase that always springs into my brain is, 'so far and no further.' Both parts are equally mysterious to me, why did my little girl, that specific individual, ever begin and then, why did she end so very shortly afterwards? Guess I'll be stuck pondering on these two until I enter the earth myself, until I go where she has gone before.
And just to mess with my mind she had a twin sister who survived exactly the same experience and is only here thanks to advanced medical technology and a hefty dose of luck. Confusing.
Thank you Josh, from one blippy speck to another.
I sometimes feel sorry for myself, but most of all I feel sorry for the people around me who still miss having a little sister or granddaughter around. I produced 3 healthy, beautiful, intelligent sons - that should be enough. But its not.
Lovely post Josh, as always, you give me something to think about.
I belive that every small life should have a reason, a goal. It's not something that you can write down with formulas, atoms or chemistry - it is rather something you feel.
I also made a list of the things she couldn't experience. That made me sadder. I blamed myself. I was not able to show her the beauty of life.
Now I think, that I was able to show her to most important thing: love. Though a lot of things have been worse since her death, there are good things too: now I am finally aware of my insignificance. I am also more humble, and I am not afraid of death anymore, because I know that when I die, I will meet with her. And maybe, we will look the Earth, which will be only a pale dot from there...
When he was in hospital we had a room with a grainy and very poorly tuned tv. On one night when we just couldn't sit by his cot any more, we turned it on. Dr Brian cox was doing one of his universe programmes and there was a tear on my cheek. I thought everything you said. There I was, in the depths of despair and my tear, me, Freddie, the family he would never know.... It was all just so very, very small. And so huge.
Beautiful post. Thanks for sharing.
"Nothing!" I'll snap at her when I'm having a bad moment and unprepared to deal with the topic.
It's hard. I'm mostly sympathetic to her and her anger, except when my own anger is most acute.