Living with Loss

The death of an only child leaves an indelible mark on the soul. There is a vacant place in living that is never filled, never eased. I know that now; if I live to be 110, it will be true then. When your only child dies it's one thing, when your only child dies before he had children of his own, it's another thing.  I'm not saying any loss of a child is greater than another; on the contrary, they all come with unique challenges. It's just that that when life prances around shouting "look at me, look at me" with the young boy walking around the lake holding his mom's hand, grandma tucking her granddaughter in at night, graduation ceremonies and proms, tournaments, plays and recitals, weddings, new jobs, and babies, they all make it so painfully clear how my time with all of that is over. Stolen. With most things in this life we have a choice, but not this. This is not my choice. This is so different from something we choose, it's not what job to take or...

T ime turns differently for the mother of a dead child.  Time is slower, much slower, more methodical in it's forward motion. I can sit for an hour and have hundreds of amazing thoughts rush across my mind, and then, just as quickly forget all the fantastic beauty of each of them. Recalling maybe one very simple and mundane task, something like I should boil an egg for breakfast.  Everything takes more out of you when you're the mother of a dead child. This world alive with children, children's activities, children's toys, and children's accomplishments is a playground rife with danger for the mother of a dead child. Breathing in the life of the rest of the world's child-filled lives somehow makes each breath a little heavier and laced with the acerbic taste of emptiness. There is not one thing in life I can do and not be confronted with children and shown the magnificent abundance of having a child in your life and yet simultaneou...

I've been living without my son for 27 months and 27 days. Do I count days? No, there really is no need to count days, I know he's not here, I taste it with each breath, I live it with each thought, I know it with every moment of each day. People often offer platitudes such as, "may time bring you healing." They naively think it true and thus present it as an offering of hope in times of despair. I begrudge no one who offers sympathy sincerely. Somehow it's a solace to the one offering that time may actually provide the recipient with the miracle of healing. But time does not heal. Time only brings a change to grief. Time does not alleviate the sorrow or diminish the anguish that comes with the death of a child. Time morphs grief into something different, maybe something more familiar we somehow learn to accept as a constant presence.  Understand however that familiar does not equate to comfortable. That grief is like a nasty tasting food th...