Losing a child is indescribably painful. As any bereaved parent will tell you, the death of a child leaves a huge line running through our lives with “before and after” etched forever in our memories. Days that were previously filled with promise and vitality suddenly seem empty and hopeless. Gradually, we come to accept that our lives will never return to what they once were and that some days are just hard.
In October 2010, we lost our previously healthy 21-year-old son, Matthew, to a form of virulent strep. What initially masked itself as a severe case of pneumonia was, in fact, a form of strep that attacked his bicuspid aortic heart valve, necessitating valve replacement surgery. But when they actually went in, they found the damage was far more extensive than they thought. And while Matthew survived the surgery (mostly due to his youth), he never regained consciousness. He spent the last week of his life in a coma before he died on October 22nd.
Before that ill-fated day in October, I had never known such sadness and hurt. As anyone who has lost a child will tell you, the pain is simultaneously acute and chronic. It’s so piercing and constant you can hardly breathe; it’s as if a cement block has been permanently placed on your chest. You don’t think it will ever go away. Grieving becomes a way of coping with the tremendous loss that now makes up your life. And while the jagged edges of my own grief have begun to smooth out a bit, I also know that it will always be with me and forever define my family.
One thing I’ve come to accept over the past two and a half years is that some days are just hard. During the first year, I came to fully expect that every day would be hard. Those early days slogged by at a surreal pace. Grief was ever-present and seemed to hold time at bay. As we approached the first anniversary of Matthew’s death in 2011, things shifted a bit, time picked up, and the acute days of grieving became less frequent, although the chronic grief remains.
Now I notice that there’s no anticipating when grief will sneak up and wash over me like a rogue wave. It just happens. It can be a song, a special place, a type of food, or just a memory that suddenly slides into my subconscious, and all I can think about is the tremendous hole that now fills my life. I can be having coffee with a friend and laughing one minute, and find my eyes filling with tears the next. And that’s okay. In fact, it just brings Matthew closer to me for that moment.
I think for bereaved parents, our grief lies just below the surface. Even when I’m laughing or absorbed in a conversation, if you were to scratch me just a little bit, my grief would come bubbling up. I’ve come to view grief not as the enemy, but rather as an emotion that I now can acknowledge and move into. I know eventually, she’ll go back under and I’ll just carry her around with me, hidden from other’s view, but always there.
In the movie “Rabbit Hole”, there’s a scene between Nicole Kidman (Becca) and her mother, Dianne Wiest (Nat), that stayed with me long after the closing credits. Becca and Nat are bereaved parents, and while Becca sees their circumstances as completely different (her four-year-old son was killed in an accident, while her brother died of a drug overdose), she and her mother now share the commonality of being bereaved mothers:
Becca: Does it ever go away?
Nat: No, I don’t think it does. Not for me, it hasn’t, and that’s going on 11 years. It changes, though.
Becca: How?
Nat: I don’t know . . . the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and . . . carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you . . . you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and—there it is. Oh right, that. Which could be awful—but not all the time. It’s kinda . . . not that you like it exactly, but it’s what you have instead of your son, so you don’t wanna let go of it either. So you carry it around. And it doesn’t go away, which is . . .
Becca: What?
Nat: Fine . . . actually.
This exchange sums up, for me, how so many of us carry the grief of losing our beloved children with us. I bring this up to remind people that for those of us who have lost a child, our grief is present, even if you don’t see it. It doesn’t go away, even with the passage of time. It doesn’t go away even if we seem “better.” With time the intense pain subsides, but our grief, like our love, is always there. And that’s okay. The beauty of the human spirit is that we have a remarkable ability to continue on, even in the most adverse of conditions. But we will always mourn our children. We don’t want them to be forgotten. Ever.
Our memories of them are all we have. Since Matthew died, I’ve learned that you do begin to put your life back together again, bit-by-bit, piece-by-piece. Its form is different, but it is still a life. It continues to have shape and meaning. And part of that new shape is formed by the memory of your loved one. That memory is present all the time, looking over your shoulder, helping you restructure this new reality. Grief is transformational. My grief has changed me in ways I’m only just beginning to understand. I am more mindful of things, big and small, happy and sad. I don’t take anything for granted. I’ve learned to embrace the paradox of unfathomable loss and profound gratitude for living. I continue to feel Matthew’s presence as we all rebuild our lives without his physical body here.
Some days are just hard. Some days grief rises up and reminds me that she’s still there. She reminds me that grieving Matthew will always be a pivotal part of my life. That’s okay. I also know that I will move through it and feel better soon. I know that life continues on, almost with a renewed sense of purpose. And for that I’m grateful. I’ve come to embrace yet another paradox of life, knowing that our hearts can be both full and broken at the same time.
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So beautifullyy written and true😢 I also lost my beautiful 21 year old Robert and all of what you have written is what I also experience thanks for sharing
Thank you for this. It resonates so loudly for me. I lost my Eamonn, at the age of 20, 22 years ago. Never ending.
This is spot on.. The grief doesn’t leave you it just changes.. I’m so very sorry for your loss.
We’re approaching our sons 8th heavenly birthday. It’s so hard to fathom he’s been gone from me 8 years!
Thank you for this article. My deepest sympathy to you and your family on the loss of your son Matthew. We to had our second born son Tommy die in electrical accident when he was 24 in 2003. It has been a journey that as you know we would not want anyone to be on, EVER! We had no choice, we all do the best we can every day. I have slowed down now , but I was full speed after his death. Reading, writing, talking, getting everything done that needed to be done. Trying to take care of my husband who became paralyzed with grief, worried about older son, and family members and friends that also loved Tommy so. One week after Tommy passed my son and wife Dawn came to us with the news, they would have a baby in April. April Iris ( to-open up the rainbow) arrived April 17, 2004. Well you know that gave me a purpose to carry on, and I did. In Oc. 14, 2005 along came a baby boy Andrew, another love and purpose. Have had the time of my life with them, my angels. They are older now, but oh the memories we made together will always be in my heart. Life does go on , in such a different way. Knowing I was so blessed with Tommy for 24 years and never took him for granted. He taught me so much about love and life. He did more in 24 years than most people have done in a life time. His memory lives on through me. Never will he be forgotten. Bless you!
This is a beautiful essay as it gives me some hope, which is in short supply right now. My son Jared died Jan. 02, 2019 . He had a lifetime, since childhood, of bipolar and anxiety disorder, and turned to substances to calm his ever present doubts, fears and anxieties when he was a teen ager. He fought so hard to overcome his problem, attending too many inpatient placements and outpatient groups and therapies to keep tack of, and had many times he was “seemed” to be fine. This last two years was the best we can remember as he had a job, a nice place to live , a girlfriend and the love of his parents and sister. He passed away accidentally and very unexpectedly leaving a hole in our hears that will never be filled. I suspect that the grief in my pocket, and now lodged in my heart. which weighs so heavily all the time now, will always be there in some form, but am hopeful to read that perhaps in time it will diminish. We want to remember him as the wonderful, caring , beautiful person we knew whose smile could light up a room and his hug could hold you , almost, forever. Thank you for these kind and wise thoughts.
Many do not understand the loss and love you have and will forever have for you child. But I have learned I don’t care what others think because their lives go on happy and complete while I still forever mourn and miss my son. Robby was 11 years old when he was killed. I don’t feel guilty and when I’m down and outv and I like to be alone and just lay in bed and cry or just think about my son. I don’t allow myself to stay this way very long because it can completely consume you and you can slip into a deep depression. I have payed from day one for God to help me with missing Robby. On many days I know God carries me though them because I can’t remember sometimes what I have done that day and by God’s grace he carried me though another day. I myself know my son will be in my heart and never forgotten till we see each other again. Love you Robby as we always said to one another… “Love you to the Moon and back till numbers never stop always always forever and ever.”
Adam would say, “love you more than the world!”…I would reply “love you more!”😢
This is exactly what I needed today and so spot on to my experience. I’m approaching the two year anniversary of losing my youngest, Christopher, at the age of 32 in a hit and run accident.
“I think for bereaved parents, our grief lies just below the surface…….if you were to scratch me just a little bit, my grief would come bubbling up. I’ve come to view grief not as the enemy, but rather as an emotion that I now can acknowledge and move into. I know eventually, she’ll go back under and I’ll just carry her around with me, hidden from other’s view, but always there.”
Grief not being the enemy, is a work in progress for me. Especially when she hits be by surprise with an intense wave. She’s always there, waiting to be acknowledged.
I am so very sorry for the death of your precious son. My son also died, as did his fiancée, in October 2010, due to the selfish choices of a drunk and drugged driver. I appreciated your article very much–thank you for sharing your heart and your experience.
“Love is stronger than death.” Song of Songs 6:8
Very sorry for each one of you that lost a child. Grief is very consuming. I can’t imagìne losing one of our children that are now adults.We lost a wonderful daughter-in-law fifteen years ago, we were very close to her. We loved her & it was very hard. We will never forget her. Karen( I have known you almost my whole life good neighbors growing up ) I am truly sorry for your loss.
God Bless! It is God that helps us through all these times.
Thank you for this article. It’s been one year, 11 months and 2 weeks since I lost my beautiful daughter, my only child and my best friend to an ultra rare disease. She was a fighter and wanted to stay for her two children but it was not to be. I still struggle with the guilt of not being able to save her and for not understanding that nothing I could do WOULD save her. You said ” My grief has changed me in ways I’m only just beginning to understand. ” That’s where I am now. You article has given me hope this morning and for that I am truly grateful. Thank you.
Thank you for sharing my feelings so eloquently. We lost our sweet and beautiful Alyssa on 1-18-17. She succumbed to the epidemic of addiction that is sweeping our country like a wildfire, leaving grieving and heartbroken families in its path. Your words bring me comfort…thank you. 💜
We have lost our only 2 sons… Our youngest son Matthew at the age of 24 on July 22, 1999: And recently our eldest son Luke at the age of 46 on Dec. 19, 2018. Every word you wrote is just how it feels to loss a child…..but now I feel hopeless and so deeply sad again……missing them so very very much….. nothing can prepare a parent for such a loss….but I know that I must honor our sons n find joy again…….
This says it all!! I could not have expressed it any better…we are coming up on the 8th anniversary of our 30 yr old daughter.. totally unexpected very rare type of cancer..2 1/2 months in hospital that we were able to be there for her..left behind her precious 2 1/2 yr old son and a miracle 24 we preemie…moved in with SIL to help..had our precious little girl for 3 yrs then lost her also due to an unfortunate accident…yes, I have always described it as “before and after”…life is never the same but changes..appreciate every minute..thankful for the “little” things! God has sustained us.. he’s closer than ever before! Do thankful for the sweet memories! (For you who are new on this journey, it takes a while to get there…but it will come!) Thank you for sharing my heart as well!
The loss of your beloved girl or boy is a fate close to death. It is a living death. The death of part of you, born from you, with their cells still living in your body and with the endless imprinting of their birth, their nuccling, their dependence and their extension of you, as a Mother. I don’t say Fathers don’t feel enormous pain but I suppose they are at least insulated from the very act of giving birth and feeding, from their bodies, our vulnerable infants. I lost my girl Cissie to overwhelming health anxiety from some real conditions which resulted in her being terrified of both these and imagined conditions. She bought endless incredibly powerful and dangerous drugs on line, to try and ‘cure’ herself, including chemotherapy drugs, which eventually destroyed her immune system and she died of drug induced AIDS. Her death is hard enough but the suffering she endured, with no real help available, and now the reaction of those around me, who simply can’t understand what happened – ‘Was it suicide’, ‘did she have a personality disorder and was self harming?’ – torment me to my entrails. Why did it happen? How was I to blame? I now feel cut off from normal life and live on the surface, dealing with peoples’ expectations of me as best I can, but knowing that my real self hides, lost, broken and traumatised, beneath a carapace.
I am soo sorry for the loss of your precious daughter. Your story touched my heart. People that don’t understand what you experienced in loosing someone so loved and dear to your heart can say cruel things. I pray for you. I know that you are struggling. God Bless.
This says it all!! I could not have expressed it any better…we are coming up on the 8th anniversary of our 30 yr old daughter.. totally unexpected very rare type of cancer..2 1/2 months in hospital that we were able to be there for her..left behind her precious 2 1/2 yr old son and a miracle 24 wk preemie…moved in with SIL to help..had our precious little girl for 3 yrs then lost her also due to an unfortunate accident…yes, I have always described it as “before and after”…life is never the same but changes..appreciate every minute..thankful for the “little” things! God has sustained us.. he’s closer than ever before! Do be thankful for the sweet memories! (For you who are new on this journey, it takes a while to get there…but it will come!) Thank you for sharing my heart as well!
This touched a chord for me as well. We lost our 47-year-old daughter to Acute Myeloid Leukemia just four weeks ago, January 3, 2019. Her death was preceded by 11 months of treatment and hope.
I think I’m moving pretty fast through things, especially when I’m around other grievers. I seem to have reached some equanimity. A couple of days this week, I was actually concerned because it seemed like I had moved beyond the excruciating pain and hadn’t fully embraced it or experienced and felt incomplete. Like I had outsmarted myself and missed something. The pain was a way of being hyper aware of Kim.
In another day or so that feeling returned, unbidden, just like this piece says. Hello, Kimmie.
My son lost his wife to cancer in 2010. Our family is riddled with cancer. There is so much grief in the world and we as a people are not so good at including it as we move through life. Thank you.
I lost my beloved daughter, Lauren, on August 15, 2017. It was a car accident. At first I did not think I could, or wanted, to survive. I just wanted to kill myself and hopefully be wherever she is. I could not eat, sleep, or bear to look at pictures of her. She lived close to me, so I had to clean out her apartment and dispense of all her belongings. That was really hard. I gave her beloved horse, Cherry Cola Lola, to her best friend. I have not been able to go see the horse either. I still can’t believe she’s gone. Every morning when I go outside to get the newspaper I say out loud, “I love you, Lauren.” I know that I will never be the same. Now, I’m facing another potential problem. My husband is very ill with congestive heart failure. I don’t think I will survive another death. Five months after I lost my Lauren, my mother passed away. It’s just getting to be too much for me to handle. Grief never goes away.
An excellent article that really did resonate strongly with me. We lost our son Ewan, to a brain aneurysm last June so we are not quite 12 months into our grief journey yet. Thank you Robin for sharing your thoughts and experiences for others to draw strength from. Wayne
Mother’s that have lost a child must bare the unbearable. I will never forget the morning we got the call,come to the Hospital as soon as you can ( johnny) has had a heart attack. Before we could get dressed and out the door, the doctor called back and said he was gone. I began screaming and letting out sounds that didn’t sound human.No, No, this can’t be true. They have made a mistake it can’t be our Johnny.Please tell me it’s not true. On November 23, 2016. God called our son home. The day before Thanksgiving. He was smoking a turkey to bring to our house. He told me that he couldn’t wait to eat some of my dressing. He left behind a beautiful 12 yr.old daughter that he adored. Our world will never be the same. I long to hear his voice, ( Mom I love You.) May God give each grieving Mother his peace and may you know that you are not alone.