Happiness Hadn’t Abandoned Me

By Janice Gorey Jackson

“I can’t believe we’re here. We’ll see this amazing view every single night,” I said in a hushed tone to Chris, my husband of almost five extraordinary years, who sat beside me in the living room of our rented Air BnB apartment in Montmartre.

I stared out through the glass doors of our Juliet balcony beyond the familiar Parisian Mansard style rooftops to Sacre Coeur, that iconic white domed church atop the highest point in Paris, lit up brilliantly, a stark contrast to the night sky. A visual reminder that contrasts can fill one with wonder. Was that true for my feelings as well? I was awed and felt incredibly privileged. Out of sheer good fortune, I was here and witness to the beauty of it. Many had neither the time nor funds to spend time in that magical city of love and light.

My life was good. It had been good. Days laced liberally with happiness. Not that I had been graced with a life where everyone and everything went according to my wishes. Afterall, unless one lived the ending to a fairy tale, life was difficult. But I learned to look at what I did have, a comfortable, mortgage free home, a healthy second marriage, my youngest son and daughter-in-law who were living their best lives, supportive friends, a loving brother and sister-in-law, and what I was keenly grateful for, my first born son, in recovery from drug addiction. I lived in gratitude, not looking at the losses in my life, nor at the fears I had overcome.

I had one condition to remain in that somewhat idyllic state.

Only one.

That the people I loved remained alive and well.

Then, at age 36, my first born son,

my son in recovery,

died.

September 12, 2023.

Six months before our sojourn in Montmartre.

Billy had battled drug addiction since age seventeen. After numerous relapses he lived in sobriety during the last four years. Then, a fatal slip. Drugs laced with fentanyl. The disease won.

Shock. Sorrow. Sleeplessness. Mental fog. Derealization - my life had spun out of control in one single moment and I was left unmoored. And the exhaustion. It rivaled that of a marathon runner as she collapsed at the finish line. Grief was like that, a thief stealing the energy I once had. Yet my run, at 70, had just begun. And everything was gray. The sky, the flowers my gaze glimpsed through the windows, my living room where I sat, prayed, and read, my heart. All color had drained from life when I heard the words, I’m sorry to inform you, your son is dead.

“Chris, what would you think about moving our vacation to the spring instead of the fall?” I asked cautiously, two weeks after Billy’s death. I was sitting at the countertop in our kitchen drinking my third cup of coffee, deeply inhaling its comforting aroma, desperately wanting to find a new purpose. Grief had stolen that as well. I had been Billy’s cheerleader. I wasn’t thinking of the other roles I played, only of the one I lost.

“Billy is all I can think of. I’m surrounded by pictures of him, usually with his arm around me, and one in our family photo taken on my birthday cruise where he struck a silly pose. Silly Billy we said when he was young. And in each picture he’s smiling his huge, contagious smile. Those images are burned into my brain, they go with me everywhere. I even imagine his voice calling, Hey, Momma! And when my phone lights up, I look down hoping to see Billy New Number before reality hits me with a sickening thud in the pit of my stomach. I need something now to help fill my brain space. Next fall seems so far off. Too far off,” and I took another sip of coffee before I added,

“I can’t believe he’s dead. I don’t expect him to walk through the door, not that kind of crazy thinking. He’s so alive to me, but I know he isn’t. Every time the thought of him dead enters my mind my stomach lurches and my heart hurts like it’s been squeezed into an unrecognizable bit of clay. I shake my head to get rid of the thought. I can’t deal with the pain yet. I’m afraid of what may happen to me when I do ‘get it’,” I said.

“What do you mean? What are you afraid of?” Chris asked, worried.

“That I may shatter into a million pieces and won’t be able to put me back,” I answered truthfully.

I looked at Chris. He was aware that I was back on anxiety medication, resting during the day, drinking a glass of wine before going to bed to help me sleep. Just one. Trying to take care of myself. Not yet ready for my long morning walks. Not yet ready to continue work on my memoir, even to journal as was my habit.

“Babe, do you think the time is right? Not too soon?” he answered, clearly concerned. “Are you sure you’re not reacting to your pain, thinking a trip would make it all go away?”

“I don’t think so. Living in my grief 24/7 won’t help me navigate my feelings, just drown in them. I don’t want to just exist, but now that’s the best I can do,” I answered.

Traveling was my happy place, no matter where we landed. I spent months researching where to go next, what apartment to rent, and selecting hotels when staying only a few days during side trips I’d also researched. And then there was the anticipation of exploring the locale’s history and topography and discovering native foods and locally grown wine. I loved it all. I had to believe that getting away from the place that screamed Your son is dead! could be my salvation.

“I feel no joy. I was hoping that in planning a new trip I’d escape grief a few hours each day. What do you think about spending the three months in Paris instead of what we had planned? We had talked about doing that the following year, but now that sounds good. Not as demanding. I’m so tired.”

“Jan, if that’s what you need. Work up the details. We need to be sure we can stay on budget,” Chris responded, knowing Paris was expensive. He was not an outwardly affectionate man, but these past weeks he gave me surprising, spontaneous hugs, knowing what I needed. This was no different. I wasn’t asking my husband to move our one or two week vacation, but our three month vacation traveling through the Balkans that was fully planned, booked and paid for (thank God for good cancellation policies).

Past losses had shown me that happiness was available when I was ready for it. Not in the immediate aftermath of death. It was an inconceivable goal after my mother suddenly died when I was twenty-four, yet happiness revealed itself when a lover entered my life. After my first husband died, I was able to entertain the thought that one day, I didn’t know when, I would experience happiness again. And I did. But was such a thought possible with the death of my son? A beloved child dying before a parent?

I had to believe happiness hadn’t abandoned me. That it got bullied into submission by guilt, regret, anger and an unending supply of sadness. But that it existed as it always has, just waiting for me to defeat the bullies. I grasped that hope like the lifeline it was. I was a wife and still a mother. They deserved a happy, functioning me. And I deserved a happy, functioning me.

At times I was my greatest obstacle in healing, not forgetting, never forgetting, but healing the drop in my stomach followed by the sucker punch (as Billy would describe it) every time I thought of him or saw his face when my cell lit up or I went to make a call or query, maybe twenty, thirty, fifty times a day. I wanted relief from the physical side of loss, my reaction to the empty space where once love had poured from this beloved son.

Grief posed the same questions over and over. Was it right to want to feel normal again? Did I even want to? In the midst of feeling the pain of Billy’s death, I felt the closest to him. My love felt the strongest. Would I lose those precious feelings if the pain left?

And then the persistent worry if I was grieving enough, or the right way.

What did people think of me?

Confused, guilty, I asked Chris one morning while we sat in our living room, “Should I not be in bed, unable to get up? Unable to function? If I truly loved Billy? Isn’t that what people question?” I’d read about mothers despairing over the death of their child or watched their agony on TV or in a movie. Hadn’t that shown me what a loving, devoted mother would do when her child dies? “Yet here I am, planning a trip to Paris.”

Chris listened. He didn’t try to fix me.

Instead of packing guilt, I visualized giving it to Goodwill (who would have the good sense to toss it away as being too old and worn) and packing my clothes instead. When guilt gnawed at me, I tried to push it aside, telling myself I had loved the best I could, and no one, including myself, could demand more. Yet traitorous thoughts fought for possession of my fucked up mind.

Grief didn’t leave because I left the country. Rather than wrestling with my conflicting and confusing emotions at home, I confronted them in Paris.

It was my birthday weekend, two weeks into our stay. Chris had made reservations for brunch at Le Vrai Paris, a café I had found in my search for ‘cute cafes in Paris’ and discovered it was in Montmartre, a 15 minute walk away.

“Are you ready?” Chris called to me in the bathroom where I was putting on my red lipstick. Instead of answering, I walked out, smiled big, and took his hand.

I loved the cobblestone streets where we trudged up their steep incline, enjoying the aerobic exercise, always hoping the calories spent would counter the calories I consumed, and then the payoff, the ease of walking on the way down. “Gravity is my friend,” Chris remarked, and I laughed, knowing he didn’t relish the steep climbs as I did.

“Look at Paris!” I cried out, glimpsing the city between the gabled apartments and the green spaces as we walked by. “Je vois la tour Montparnasse et la tour Eiffel,” feeling pleased with myself for using the French phrase, pleased I was looking forward to my birthday brunch, pleased to be experiencing a new café. The excitement of discovery was returning, an adrenaline rush I couldn’t ignore, didn’t want to ignore. It energized me, and I was glad of it.

As we approached the cafe, I understood why it was listed as one of the most beautiful – copious pink and blue and white flowers adorned the exterior from one end of the restaurant to the other, with charming café tables lining the sidewalk, humming with murmured conversations from its patrons.

I turned to Chris, smiling, “I love this. It’s perfect. I’m excited we’re here. Not a feeling I’ve had too often of late. Thank you, Honey.” And I squeezed his hand.

We entered the café, and as Chris guided me to a table, I saw someone sitting by a window that was a doppelganger for my son Michael. I stopped cold.

I turned to Chris and said, “That guy sitting over there (indicating with a nod of my head to be discreet) looks just like Mike.” But I knew it wasn’t Mike. It couldn’t have possibly been Mike. Mike was home in Texas.

Then that doppelganger got up from the table, opened his arms wide and enveloped me in a hug so big it made Texas seem small, as he said, “Happy Birthday, Momma!”

Shock, then happiness bubbled up from the core of my bruised and battered heart, like a warm and comforting quilt that floated about me, settling on my shoulders. Excitement for the morning had morphed into joy. How much this son of mine loved me!

Slivers of happiness then grew into big, fat slices slathered with butter and honey. I had lost love when I lost Billy but love still surrounded me. Love would heal me. And yes, dark times, sad times, crying times existed. But what I understood in Paris was that I was created with complex, seemingly contradictory emotions, all which made me fully alive and fully human. Instead of pushing down grief and pain, I learned to let those feelings surface, feel them, and then let other feelings arise at will. Love and curiosity and wonder and gratitude, and at times anger and guilt and regret and remorse. They were all me.

Paris gave me a much needed respite from grieving. It allowed me to grieve in my own way and time without worrying if I was doing this thing called grief correctly. I was surrounded by strangers, not friends and acquaintances who in my weakest moments I felt would judge me. The new and exciting places I saw and experienced gave oxygen to my positive feelings. What I brought to Paris was willingness. A willingness to feel feelings other than sadness, and courage to defeat the bullies that told me happiness was wrong. It didn’t have to be Paris, but Paris was where I chose to enter the wrestling ring.

To allow happiness in, I needed to accept life on life’s terms. I needed to let go of conditional thinking . . . I can only be happy if. . . And in this I am a work in progress.

I miss my son.

I will always miss my son.

Yet Paris gave me pinch me moments. Visiting its monuments, its Gothic and Renaissance churches, surveying the familiar rooftops with their charming chimney pots of different heights and styles. We wandered the cobblestone streets that spoke of bygone days, listening to music from street musicians, whether performing pop or familiar arias, and inhaling the aromas of freshly baked croissants and baguettes that drifted out from patisseries that thrived on every block in that city of gastronomy.

Moments to grab onto life.

Never forgetting.

But choosing to thrive once again.

When I can.

About the Author

Janice Jackson graduated from American University with a degree in International Relations. Her last of three careers, as an educator, she taught writing, among other subjects. She has taken online writing classes and multiple workshops on writing memoir and personal essay.Together with her first husband, John Gorey, they raised two sons, Billy and Michael. Jan lost Billy, at age thirty-six, to a fatal slip, a needle laced with fentanyl, after four years of bravely facing sobriety. Since the death of her son, she has written multiple essays on grief and loss. She is seeking publication for her completed memoir, which tells the story of how, in childhood, codependency was forged, its damaging consequences, and how she found recovery.

After being widowed for seven years, she married Chris Jackson in 2019, and together they travel extensively.