This Time Of Year

This is my perspective on where I am. This is NOT a comparison between the loss of a child and the loss of a parent.

Silence is deafening when you are grieving; it is overwhelming, a dull pain that can shock you at a moment's notice and bring you to your knees. Grief has no limits, no money, and doesn't care about timing.

Grief is like a vulture, circling my life as if I'm watching from the spectator seats. It feels as though the loss of my little bowtie-wearing gentleman didn't happen to me, but to someone else. Well-documented videos from phones and social media help me through moments I can't describe.

That is my reality, one I try so hard to keep closed in a box on a shelf. But as the months count down to significant moments (his birthday, the day he gained his wings, Mother's Day, Father's Day, anytime it snows), tremors shake the lid, and unconscious grief slips out.

Yet, this isn't a world where you can let it slip out. As a parent to a living sibling, I don't have room for a slip-up. I guard those days, keep them tucked in the basement sobbing into towels, or in the driveway sitting in the truck behind tinted windows. I am the master of my mask, keeping the strings tight as I move through each day.

But that's what we do as parents. We put on a mask of determined fortitude. We aren't the only victims in this tragic result of a fallen world, after all. My ThunderTot lost the innocence of believing in a perfect world, the future of baby dolls played, secrets shared, fights fought. She also lost the naivety of believing her parents were infallible, something that has aftershocks still to this day. Her fear of death and of something happening to me is a battle I fight weekly, to the point where I hate traveling, where she witnesses me leave. It's hard to leave when I can see her eyes well up and drown in fear.

Last week, in a not-so-smart moment, I went to support a friend who recently lost her son. I'm not sure I would've gone except that when I was in her shoes years ago, I wished I had a friend to go with me. Losing a child is the loneliest, most desolate journey a person can take, and the only people who can come close to appreciating it are those who share the experience.

The facilitator opened the meeting by saying that the dues to belong to the club are more than anyone would ever want to pay. Well, he couldn't be more correct: No one wants to belong to this group.

So, I attended the group, and it was an adjustment. The faces were new, and I knew at the moment I said out loud that I was there for support, an attendee catapulted my way, saying it was “nice” of me, however, I “didn’t understand.” So, unboxing my own story had to be done. I had to acknowledge that my focus was on supporting her, and though I also suffered the loss of a child, no loss can compare to the next. My focus was on her.

“Yeah, I know that was tough, but…” he paused, realizing the phrase, yet continued, “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.” The statement was a punch in the chest, unsuspecting from someone who I could only assume would crumble at it themselves.

Generally, people mean well. But because our society still treats grief as an awkward pause in life, one never restarts. Loss is something that is never easy, but especially excruciating when it was the life you created, carried, birthed, and held. It is so important to remember your child, but also important to remember yourself.

Grief is one of the most uncomfortable topics in the world. When you grieve, you often struggle to capture the wide range of emotions felt day-to-day, or you struggle to grasp what kind of support you need when asked. But for others watching you grieve, it’s awkward and sometimes silent. People say the words “take as long as you need,” and yet they expect you to come back to work in a week or at least get out of bed. There’s this unspoken expectation that eventually you will stop talking about it or it won’t be at the forefront of your daily life anymore. But the truth is, you have gone through a great loss, one like no other. Although that grief will look different over time, it IS a part of you.

I say this because it is OK to feel it. It’s OK to take as long as you need because you will need forever. It’s OK to feel the range of emotions, to talk about it, to cry, to not be OK sometimes. The norm SHOULD be that we expect each other to grieve for a lifetime, and that we unconditionally accept that your loss will shape you in a different way forever. 

While grief may take a lifetime, healing allows your pain to feel like that boulder on your chest each and every day is a little lighter. It is anger and acceptance, pain and comfort.

Being a part of that group reminded me how much we all need to learn how to give support to grieving parents on a sacred journey they never wanted to take.

Here are my five asks:

1. Remember our children with us. The loss of children is a pain all bereaved parents share, and it is a degree of suffering that is impossible to grasp without experiencing it firsthand. Often, when we know someone else is experiencing grief, our discomfort keeps us from approaching it head-on. But we parents want the world to remember our child or children, no matter how young or old our child was. If you see something that reminds you of my child, tell me. If you are reminded at the holidays or on his birthday that I am missing my son, please tell me you remember him. And when I speak his name or relive memories, relive them with me; don't shrink away. If you never met my son, don't be afraid to ask about him. One of my greatest joys is talking about him.

1. Accept that you can't "fix" us. An out-of-order death such as child loss breaks a person (especially a parent) in a way that is not fixable or solvable. We will learn to pick up the pieces and move forward, but our lives will never be the same. Every grieving parent must find a way to continue to live with loss, and it's a solitary journey. We appreciate your support and hope you can be patient with us as we find our way. Please: Don't tell us it's time to get back to life, that's it's been long enough, or that time heals all wounds. We welcome your support and love, and we know sometimes it's hard to watch, but our sense of brokenness isn't going to go away but is something to observe, recognize, accept.

1. Know that there are at least two days a year we need a timeout – birthday and anniversary of death. We still count birthdays and fantasize about what our child would be like if he or she were still living. Birthdays are especially hard for us. Our hearts ache to celebrate our child's arrival into this world, but we are left becoming intensely aware of the hole in our hearts instead. Some parents create rituals or have parties while others prefer solitude. Either way, we are likely going to need time to process the marking of another year without our child. Then there's the anniversary of the date our child became an angel. This is a remarkable process similar to a parent of a newborn, first counting the days, then months, then the one-year anniversary, marking the time on the other side of that crevasse in our lives. No matter how many years go by, the anniversary date of when our child died brings back deeply emotional memories and painful feelings (particularly if there is trauma associated with the child's death). The days leading up to that day can feel like impending doom or like it's hard to breathe. We may or may not share with you what's happening. This is where the process of remembrance will help. If you have heard me speak of my child or supported me in remembering him, you will be able to put the pieces together and know when these tough days are approaching.

1. Realize that we struggle every day with happiness. It's an ongoing battle to balance the pain and guilt of outliving your child with the desire to live in a way that honors them and their time on this earth. I struggle with cheering for ThunderTot as she takes competitive cheer by storm. I also leave an empty seat for her brother, who I am sure would despise the glitter, loud music, and makeup. I don't have the heart to give away his baseball gear, Darth Vader backpack, action figures, or race cars. They still smell like him to me. As bereaved parents, we are constantly balancing holding grief in one hand and a happy life after loss in the other. You might observe this when you are with us at a wedding, graduation, or other milestone celebration. Don't walk away—witness it with us and be part of our process.

1. Accept the fact that our loss might make you uncomfortable. Our loss is unnatural, out of order; it challenges your sense of safety. You may not know what to say or do, and you're afraid you might make us lose it. We've learned all of this as part of what we're learning about grief. We will never forget our child. And, in fact, our loss is always right under the surface of other emotions, even happiness. We would rather lose it because you spoke his/her name and remembered our child than try and shield ourselves from the pain and live in denial. Grief is the pendulum swing of love. The stronger and deeper the love, the more grief will be created on the other side. Consider it a sacred opportunity to stand shoulder to shoulder with someone who has endured one of life's most frightening events, and your presence counts.

-T

Note: I am always afraid that Isaiah will be forgotten.  

I’m afraid that as time passes, things change and lives move forward, his place in hearts will be squeezed smaller and smaller until only a speck remains.

Not in my heart, of course.

But he is not the only one who can be forgotten.  I am just as fearful that ThunderTot will be forgotten.

Not in the same way - she is HERE.

She is participating in life and making new memories, new connections and strengthening old ones.

I’m afraid her grief will be overlooked, unacknowledged-swept under the giant rug of life and busyness that seems to cover everything unpleasant or undervalued.

If the course of a bereaved parent’s grief is marked by initial outpouring of concern, comfort and care followed by the falling away of friends, family and faithful companionship then that of a bereaved sibling is doubly so.

Surviving children often try to lessen a grieving parent’s burden by acting as if “everything is OK”.

But it’s not-it is definitely NOT.

Their world has been irrevocably altered.  They have come face-to-face with mortality, with deep pain, with an understanding that bad things happen-happen to people they love-without warning and without remedy.

They are forced to rethink their family, their faith and their future without a life-long friend and companion.

Part of their history is gone.

Remember that, and keep vigitant that her smile fades when she realizes that empty space.