Recently, I was shopping for a sympathy card and many of the cards had a message that essentially said, “May your memories bring you comfort.” I received cards like these when my son, Danny died. Perhaps you received similar cards when your child died. My reaction to the sentiment in the cards was that, not only did memories not bring me comfort, but they were a painful reminder of my son’s absence. I didn’t need memories, I needed him back. It’s been 11 years since Danny died, and today I have a different perspective. Those memories that were once so painful, now help keep me connected to my son.
The summer memories are the best. Every summer for 20 years, we would load up the car with bikes, kayaks, boogie boards, and lots of sunscreen and set off for Cape Cod for a week’s vacation. We always had a competition to see who would be the first to see the bridge over the canal. The time away from school, work, and routines became a much-anticipated tradition for our family. When the kids got older, my husband and I offered to take them to other places for vacation, but they both still wanted to go to the Cape. When Danny was in middle school, he wrote a poem about the Cape that captured his feelings about those special times. Here is a snippet from his poem:
“Cape Cod is the place for me to be me,
to relax by the sea.
There is nowhere I have to be.
That’s the life for me.”
After Danny’s death at almost 21 years old, I went to a healing concert with Alan Pederson put on by our local TCF chapter. At one point, Alan asked the audience to recall a memory of our loved one and stay with it. The memory that came to mind was of Danny running along the beach when he was about two. Later I wrote about it in my journal: “The sky is a vivid, cloudless blue. The sea sparkles and dances as it stretches to meet the endless sky. The sun slants over the dunes, casting a golden glow over us. As I walk, I watch you. Running, laughing, you are so free and so happy. And I am happy too. Your life has so much potential, so much promise. This golden memory makes me feel warm all over and I want to keep it with me.”
With such ties to Cape Cod, it is no wonder that in my darkest time of grief, I returned there to try to find some peace. I remember vividly that first summer after Danny died. I was at the beach, and I pulled my sand chair into the surf. As the waves rolled over my feet and the sun beat down on me, I just cried and cried and cried. Another day found me pulling my bike off the bike path, plopping down by the side of the trail and sobbing, overcome by memories of all of us riding on this same trail, perhaps with an ice cream shop as our final destination. Long walks on the beach allowed me time to process my grief and gave me the space I needed to start to heal. Sometimes I came to the beach with my journal and pen and wrote letters or poems to Danny. The beach is where I feel the most connected to Danny because of our shared love of this special place.
With my husband’s impending retirement last year, we considered a move to the Cape. This had always been our dream, but after losing Danny, I didn’t think I wanted to leave the town where he grew up, where he was buried, and where we had made 36 years’ worth of connections. I was afraid that moving away would diminish the connections I had with Danny. After all, he had never been to the house that we would be moving into. After much thought, we decided to make the move. We have made a conscious effort to bring reminders of Danny with us to our new home. His poem about the Cape hangs in our bedroom along with photos of him at the Cape at different ages. His drawing of a fishing boat that he did in high school hangs in our living room. My husband fishes with Danny’s fishing gear (he was passionate about fishing.) Although he was never here, he feels so close to us. And of course, as I walk the beach, I feel him walking right there beside me. When I found a pair of angel wing shells, I knew for sure that he was with me.
As the years have passed, I have found comfort in my memories of Danny. Not all my memories are “golden memories” because Danny struggled with mental health issues, and we had many difficult times. However, I have learned to choose which memories I want to focus on and which to allow only a fleeting entrance into my consciousness. I still don’t buy those sympathy cards about comforting memories though because I know that that comfort only comes with time.
Perhaps this summer, you will find new ways to nurture your relationship with your child. Our children’s lives on earth may end, but our love for them and their love for us lives on forever.
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Thank you for being an outstanding role model for those of us still immobilized.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful story. This article brought out those feelings that I feel are so difficult to express. It’s been a couple years now and every time I wake up in the morning, there is a split second where I forget that she’s not with us anymore.